All these poets writing of poetry
Like peacocks thinking only of their tails
Meanwhile the blazing sun
The road ahead
**
Stray cat follows me home
Leaves whisper
Although I live far inland
There’s the green chill of the sea
**
Mother, if I could call you back
I’d ask, as I failed to do
When you were with us,
Who hurt you so?
**
“Humerus”
I am sad like summer sun
No name for it
Bone words unwrit
My wholly
Imagined shrink—Doctor
Sigmoid Fraud—
Sez
Have a good
Colonic…
**
Today
I see my hands
As attached
To an old man
Who isn’t me
**
America:
A dream of teeth—I woke chewing a rope—a French knot from the Commune, a vicious thing, braided with vengeance. Stars at the window, topiary gardens far off. If only I could escape my bonds. My dear life, my stubborn jaws and the hourglass just out of reach. “Oh,” I cried, “what apparatus of report have we here?” A mouse in the wall was chewing too. Yes forest to foothills I heard—every live thing making it by means of teeth. In such a world there is no will to charm. There’s only the white and blue moon, and hunger incessant, valorous, gnawing at history.
**
Down river a fox hunts for mice
July is life itself
And defies occupation
Planet of the Blind 