| H. Her middle initial was so concrete that only time and the weeds underneath could ever crack it, could ever threaten her name. She once read an entire book about nothing but the color blue that seemed less real than that one capital letter immobilized by its great cast-iron period. I took her hand and that was enough, each finger neither a friend nor a voice. Certainly not an answer. A heather growing in the wild. A touch complete enough. Holding hands on a crisp autumn day, an act at once too familiar and too formal. A blue flower against a blue moon. A whisper. A hint at nothing more than the hint itself. In Dreams When the great Roy Orbison sings “In Dreams,” he redeems the broken things in dreams. The lonely bush, the golden jackass, topiary fit for a king in dreams. Used bandages like two Japanese flags, the redwing blackbird spreads its wings in dreams. I kiss each naked finger goodbye every time the telephone rings in dreams. Subconscious swings through jungle trees, hit by shit chimpanzees fling in dreams. The twentieth century’s empty room. Yellow lights flashing under blankets in dreams. I’m tempted to let this world unravel, to detune all the brass and strings in dreams. Beware, Glen, equally the sweet talk of honeybees, the hornet’s sting in dreams. | Midsummer XLVIII I kissed a girl on a bus And that bus went everywhere I kissed a girl with the windows open And the windows were our mouths By this time the act of kissing Had gotten all muddled With the act of rolling The landscape revealing itself Little by little Mile by mile by mile Word got around And word got embellished By the young Who would roll into each other With abandon Like dice warmed By the very thought Of a stranger’s breath By the dead Who had left instructions Their tombstones chiseled More beautifully The inscriptions equal parts Memorial and mystery I could see the gears Under those words I could feel the globe’s Steady spin Against my bare skin My feet moist with morning dew. |
RSS Feed
