sometimes I wonder (revisited)
Sometimes I wonderif she ever existed.
—found poem
Sometimes I wonder
if she ever existed.
Only a smile now
a gesture
copper hair flashing
she fades even in dreams
artist in the supermarket
She stands in the aisle like reverse Stendhal:frozen, her hand extended over the mound of apples.
Apples push into her like the fists of a lover
knocking at a locked door, urgent, juicy, plump.
It's always like this: fruit overwhelms, vegetables
scream longing; fresh trout imagines a sizzling grill,
beef lounges in a marinade, ready to sear.
She wants to paint, to cook, to knead warm
transit
Night. City street after rain.Early autumn leaves cling to the pavement
like wet hair on a waiting face.
Amber and blue incandescence
lies in pools for walking entrances,
performances and exits,
as the occasional soloist mimes
man walking alone on the street
concert
engine idle just beyond theancient boathouse
river calm and waiting silent
to the weed beds
and the spaces vast, beyond
ease the throttle slowly forward
hear the engine twist
inside the music
The part I sing in our quartethovers above or below the melody;
often it sounds like the French horn.
The Lead's note sounds familiar;
the Bass is the solid foundation;
the Tenor lilts above all, thrillingly;
my part, the Bari, fills it all in.
cocoon
Inside the silk threadsis what will come:
beautiful wings,
gleaming reds, yellows, blues,
curves and strength,
the freedom of flight
instead of plodding,
gnawing eating.
lotus eaters
This is the first in a series I started a while back. I should write a few more on this . . .everyone on the street was
somewhere else
listening to music
words from another time
another place
after
She used to purr when she leaped onto the bed;I prefer to think of her arrivals.
I could read her expressions through the fur:
glad to see me (and usually was):
relaxed eyelids, fur sleek off the face;
impatient with my stupidity:
Mauve and Gold
If a god were eating strawberriesWhen that sunset happened,
I know he'd stop in mid-bite
With red sweet juice dribbling
Down his chin onto his toga
And just stare and do a god-thing:
driving home
The sun set just before we turned west onto the roadthat curved into the pure black landscape silhouetted
against the absolutely clear tangerine and indigo sky.
As our headlights revealed and dismissed the familiar
meanderings of this riverside route and its clusters of cottages
On being mistaken for myself
Photos never lieexcept when they must,
with a minimum of mendacity,
tell welting whoppers
about how egregiously old
the old codger has become.
I have studied photos
taken years ago
that make me look
what was left
First they took away the all moneypoured it into the government trough
and they fed the war in Afganistan
but still that wasn't enough
so they crucified the artists
and they stood around and laughed
thinking below ground
Late in the day
when the whether
has resolved into the done
and can’t be returned
for a refund,
and complaining
is still tiresome
as teenage logic,
and achievement
seems like magic,
I sit down here in my
subterranean office
and contemplate
lying still under clay
at the end of the day.
That’s when I wonder
whether anything I did
will remain above ground
or even be thought of
or possibly found;
or much more:
understood
if at all possible;
like the time I said my
test results were tossable;
and ordered a second death
by chocolate dessert
which I still enjoy
thinking about per-
versely to annoy
people who want me to
live forever.
corners
Our tin ceiling when it’s finished
will have cornices
each pressed and cut from
powder-coated tin.
So shiny it will be
and so exotic:
I hope that doing it
won’t do me in.
The corners of the cornices
are intricate
and some are out and
some completely in;
and cutting them and
fitting drives me crazy:
for tin is thin and cutting
warps its skin;
Myopic visitor who
comes hereafter:
I hope that when you sit
and contemplate
these cornice corners
hewed from this disaster,
you’ll see such beauty
you will meditate
and come to realize
we’re put on earth
so gods can fill their days
in constant mirth.
April Green
After the April sun and wind
had wrung every drop of dust
from every deserted furrow
clouds visited intense rain
and green sprang everywhere:
lush intense green riper than
memory sweeter than earth
bolder than promises of sweet
kisses by youth who have heard
how sweet kisses can be.
assistant
Our cat assistant is learning
how to knit perhaps
“teaching herself”
is more accurate
as we have no desire
to encourage
this perling aspiration
for our high-strung cat
I used to wonder
why that string puzzle
was “cat’s cradle”
when no cat needs a cradle
each has her own
or can construct one
or help you make one
with materials at paw.
Now I know
any tangle of wool
or string could be
a cat’s cradle or
a cat’s obsession
or not
as she walks away.
come
Buds swell over winter’s tired vistas
drag horizons to trembling tonguetips
sing politic promises of warm pungent green
seduce skin, fur, feather and scale
startle and hush sky and footfall
stifle vision vista and vantage
tickle the soft hair on my arms
and count me in.
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