Ulysses Stable

And so, Ulysses
you take your last
great voyage

coins on your eyes
to pay the ferryman
respite, yes,

and rest you shall have,
forever more, the
song of Circe soothing

your troubled breast
no more, no more the
tide will rise to swallow

you and all your words,
your worlds,
yet undiscovered

so bright, the diamond-
treasure your coffers will hold
at the end of your journey,

tempest tossed, my fellow,
my friend, my brother, my baby child,
flesh of my flesh

rest and cry no more,
a chara, mo chroi

Corn Country

they're praying for rain
in corn country, the
whispers rise up, a
cricket song
before the locusts come

ah, where were the seven years
of plenty?

and, oh, the deaths of
dreams deferred rise up,
these wraiths, confused
looks on their faces, so,
this is all there is then....

the myth of men with
pensions, pushing their
boats off into the future as
the leaves fall, it is too
cruel, too cruel indeed

the flagstones greened over
with damp, the green velvet
interrupting stone, the halting
words, so much, my dear, so much
of scraps and string and cello tape

yet it will hold, as it has to--
as sure as the sun rising or
the blank face of the moon staring back at one

Blast Fire Collapse

the little slips of girls go past, smoothshouldered,
all in their summer clothes, their Liberty prints springing springlike
as white billows up, undampened by
the water streaming

another building gone to rubble--
the senseless sight and smoke
sears the eyes raw, raked
over on hot coals

blast fire collapse
terrifying trinity, this particular sequence
of words, smudged onto the pallid
newsprint of the grey lady, the News

and Hamilton's paper
oh, the sick stomach, the dagger
through the heart, hearing of the
wraiths wandering away from this

unholy conflagration, plaster powdered,
eyes staring, the brow cut there, and there,
and there, testament to the foul handiwork
of others, black beetles tunnelling through ancient dung

Anatomy

the sinews that bind bone to
flesh, pinkstrong elastic, have that
fluidity that yet allows our
movement

ranging and arranging over the
mapland that is ours, speeding over
the veins of highways: blue, shaded
by leaves: green

and the heart's meat is a dark meat--
throbbing and pulsing--no pretty
valentine this, but wetly red,
damp-chambered, going

pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, as hidden birds
sing their evening song---from what
trees now, do they sing, since the
uprooting?

dusk, when light blue darkens, darkening
to night, that is when they sing--
sometimes one alone, so cutting clear
as if a message meant for her heart

to sing in tune, walking on geometric
paving stones, the windows now dull
and dark, many paned, brittle, the
bricks arranged just so--as they

were engineered, the cement spread,
the stones placed-so-ringing round
this world fenced in by green, by
green, by green

mud-luscious, puddle-wonderful, after
spring parkinglots the lovely wet
will give way to winter and the
thin lace skim of ice easily

broken by the sole of a boot. We humans are hardier
creatures--season to season we
travel together, keeping each other
warm, feeding each other with

flesh and a little wine, ruby red
in the bottle, hands together twined,
one half of the other, one enclosed in
the other, fine movement that was

Business Life

getting on with the business of life
she said
after all has been mouthed over,
parsed, diagrammed,
pureed and strained
to a consistency that is easy
to take
see how it dribbles, into the jar,
all the old words and troubles
minced beyond recognition

a fine jam, to put away and let
pickle, slowly,
the sour taste is acrid, it burns,
it is familiar
yet,
put it away, jar it sealed tight with
waxy blobs coalesced wartlike
over the seams
and get on with the business of
life

the getting and spending, laying
away provisions, antlike, for
cloudy, unspecified futures to come,
lining a paper nest with black
words on it, reassuring script,
old stories to warm one, to warn one

the living and reliving, repeating
pattern in a garment, first swirl
this way, then that, be that precise
red, then orange, then blue, as
predictable as DNA replicating over
and again, gene-true

getting on with the business of
life
the repeated motions, walk
here, then there,
turn and spin,
ask a question,
be silent-safe,
cunning close, wax-sealed

Desert Writing

a single tree amidst scrubland sunbleached pale,
tall, fine, strong---moored in
rocky ground--the shifting
plates sigh and grind against
one another in their dark sweet tectonics

green-scented thick, branches reaching
for heaven, sloping, too, towards
earth, twisting trunk
deep-ridged rough, a sure support
to lean long against

and weep for what was--this arid
expanse all around, the lack
of shade, parched throat a burning
road for whispers, low moans,
yes, yes, and yet--no

a single tree, fragrant, many-veined,
sap-thick, shading, steadfast in
this desert fire, each grain of sand
a second, time shifting in waves,
writing words upon the earth in her fluid script

Driving

lacquer-hard-- these shells creep past,
most silently, though some scream
as they turn a corner, some warm
with sufficient space for the

extension of legs-- oh -- mystery of
internal combustion-- the mechanics
of things--what makes us go--not
stop--the fire within us that blazes up

in the night, so warming. Where are
they all going, she wonders--and pulls
the curtains close. Banded in by
highways here, the greyblue ribbons

of asphalt, laid down with gravel and
hot tar in the summer, smoking, black,
noxious--the proper signs put up,
green and white, to mark the

exits--always the roar, the insect-hum
in the background deadened only by snow

always going--where are they going, going
to go
back to what home, back to what work,
the marked off spaces we place our
names on

the carrier bags filled with groceries
in the back, the gold crowns,
sticky-handed children, a jumble
of laundry, bright toys, primary colors
red, blue, and yellow like the light above--
butterscotch colored, it is burning out,
no longer white bright like the slim-
necked brothers and sisters lining the road,

these sentries showing the way--here--
and here--and here--the head-
lights pick out the exit signs--they
gleam back, the diamond-pointed strips

common illumination leading us our way,
all our ways, home-ways, work-ways, our
willful ways
humming along, along, those neon miles
past the car dealerships, the chain
restaurant with parkinglot pitted with
shallow depressions that catch the rain,
vague industrial buildings sprouted up
inside chainlink fences (their blank
bricks tell no story, tell no story save
that of forms filed in triplicate, carbonized,
delicate canary yellow covered in a fine dust)

road, cut through rock, twists ever and
ever away, light pointed, a place
thick with trees and crows, coal black,
call to each other as the moon silvers
over the blueblack ribbons tying us
each to each, exits and entrances
our beginnings and ends, the center
one comes to, embracing in a perfect circle,
the beginning and end of all our travels

Changeling

the tree is white-wreathed in fog, she is
rooted firm, woodpale tentacles
reaching for the grey petticoat edge of
sky above, clots of birdsnests

lodged one here, one there, interrupting
the line of her limbs, that
graceful upraising: see--she
speaks when the wind threads

through her spindle-branches--I
was woman once (whispering) I
loved, and lost, my body
wept great tears, sad flesh

all a-melting til I came to
be rooted here, feet pushing
down into the thick minerals, the
shifting sands, rich darkloam velvet

arms and hand and fingers and
hair all became branches, bark-
thickened, hard ridged rough,
weeping no more, but sighing in
summer at the wind-sweet,
(too brief) embrace

Ants

and who are we, we ants, under this
tent of blue, marking time with our
feet as we secure the crumbs the
grasshopper has let drop from his table

brocaded, heavy with victuals and wine
(we'll enjoy them later, in the dark,
after all are asleep) glittering red
and gold, they flex their green limbs

and chirrup, chirrup (a pleasant sound,
a summer sound) before the winter,
the seven years of famine, soggy-wet
and cold before the

seven years of plenty promised to all
we ants, busying ourselves with our hoardings,
the quick calculations of need and
want, those shoes will last one more

season, the soup may be extended yet,
with nothing gone to waste
we should be fine---didn't we all
start out with the linoleum?

Unweaving

pulling out the stitchwork, untying the
knots that moored the story in
place, this precious tapestry of words
and work and tears and too

much entirely. the diamond-panes
wink, wink, in the sun, glinting
signals a brittle code to say yes,
you, and again, not you

threads unwoven, helped with the
snip of a scissors, falling to the floor, a
curly mass of color, incoherent
rainbow, code for what was

snippets--abbreviations--punctuations--punches
to the pit of your gut

unworking the words of smooth silk, the
buttery floss twinkling through the fingers
as the shuttle flashes and

one more line completed, and then
another until the story is told, untold,
mouthed over, a handful of remnants in
your palm, greased over with time and the dust of days innumerable

Botanicals

loving these rank weeds
better than any hothouse flower,
those green tendrils under glass
fertilized with gold coins

and kisses. No--give me
the dandelion leaves, curly-edged,
so good to eat, the Queen Anne's
lace, the accidental Orange William

bursting through rock regardless of
any human action or inaction,
the broad leaves worked to lace
by the bug's jaws sawing, satiated--

they are never satiated--always
hungry, hungry, lapping up the
dew. Accidental colors, the flag
to fly, royal purple, butter yellow

the ivory-pale honeysuckle trumpets out
sweet scent in a cloud, a fug
to walk through, no, no hothouse
flowers these--and all the better for it

McLean Avenue, Woodlawn

the moon on Christmas night: flat jewel,
communion host, pearlish rays
radiate round, milkwhite soft

such streams I would catch for
you in my eyes, throw them back
upon the page, white showing

beneath the black, as that moon
sharpcut ivory atop the sky, hanging
heavy with promise, benificent, beaming

down into my pale orbs, glassy at such
a sight, eagerly feeding you
from the meat of my heart, chilled

and silent on the sideboard, festive
garnish now knife-riddled, stabbed with
tine of fork, though the delicious crackling

of burnt fat still tempts the tongue,
invites a sweet, a
sweet devouring

Grand Central Station

another incendiary threat, another
train derailed (we walk, like
sheep, directed by the mouth
behind the bullhorn) bobbling
heads, shuffling feet, masses of
puppet-dolls directed round the
tiled laybrinth after our
toil-long day, heels and toes
nipped, cattle, cattle, moving
to the (somewhat) less congested
concourse

as polite lines form at the bar cars,
Twomey pours the baby bottles of gin, juniper fragrant,
and breaks into speech--bomb--
bomb threat--we widen eyes
and nod,
--ah, yes, yes, (our throats and
hands and eyes are tied with invisible string) we
say thank-you, we walk
politely--waiting always for
the bombs bursting in air,

our falling, messy-sprawled and
broken, the bits held with
newspaper and plaster of paris
fine creatures, the works of art
we all are

Fleetwood Grocery

the butcher man's white coat, daubed over
with crimson, the knife slicing, again
and again the Sunday cuts, buy one

get one free, slapped onto styrofoam
and shrinkwrapped--to tap--or
not to tap--to secure his attention

that is the question as the eggs, the
milk, the bacon beckon--while the
manager ticks off the loaves on the

breadman's blue pallets, four, eight,
sixteen, checking off the numbers
and---love, love me do--breaking

in over the P.A. Do I love you?
I love you like onions as they go from
sharp to sweet, browning to translucence
in a cast iron pan--sliced sausages,
plum tomatoes, will finish the mix

thick papered bulletin board of promises:
I will clean your house
I will care for your child
I will do light housework
I will care for your elderly
I will serve at your party
I will teach you how to play the guitar

Marcella sits outside finishing
her cigarette break, smoke spiraling
as she uncovers the numbers with
a silver coin, scraping the grey
into slim sausages to be blown
into the wind

bakery--you have a call on line two--
as the cool slabs of cheese sit next
to the knishes, lovely comestibles waiting
for their devouring

Rough Road

neonbright diamond, blacklettered,
'rough road" it states, in terse,
exact capitals

we're on the one road....

tarring it over, the fumes rise,
a hot fug thick into the air--shovel
it quickly--then press it down

to make our roads smooth again,
the black bands joining us, one to
one, to everyone

this land is my land.....

in all our small corners, papered
over with words, faint embroideries
upon the fabric we've spun

and the voices die with
a dying fall
ever and again

as we travel our roads,
each to his own destination--
shank's mare is fine for me
on any road, wet or dry

we're together now, who cares

as the starlings dart and
seek their breakfast out
rough roads made smooth

Cross County Shopping Center

these entities, bareshouldered, move
as if in a dream, sleep in their eyes
as sunlight lashes down, searing over
their flesh, the air hangs heavy

mixed, as it is, with the smog and
smoke and wretched detrius of the
burning away of fuel in those
hundreds of cars beetling around

the center, your hospital and cross
long ago a memory, Woolworth's
too, and those lovely scents (french fries,
cosmetics, dimestore cologne, chocolate)

and William Tell long ago shot his last neon
arrow as sister counted out nails-- 2, 3,
4 - and totted up the final cost-
the cost indeed

with Wannamaker's and Gimbel's passed
out of time, time, we're left with
power tools and torches, baby clothes
and sneakers, ill-made garments,

Rosalie, you wouldn't believe it Rosalie

papered windows, waiting for this
promised rebirth, this renaissance,
for this 'center of your universe'
hemmed in by the highways, beige bands of cement

and still they move, implacable
slow-moving, heavy-legged, up the
hill to the Red Coach, drawn,
drawn always, to this center, always and

always, forever and a day, waiting
for Santa, bags slapping against their calves

Talk Radio

ruby circle gleams in the night, the
single cyclops eye: staring through
the black
as the train man rides his hobbyhorse
again
and again
---fourth night now on the same topic

oh, the bellicose, the bleaters, the
callers checklist their catchphrases,
careful not to omit one

oh, the poppers of pills, or those too
refined for words, playing their
tinkling melodies, the aural
wallpaper to make bacon and eggs to

oh, the screamers, the ruddy rudefaced
bellowing men--where would we be
without them--and their catty
counterparts--that one had her meow-mix
this morning

how finely tuned, the tenor of
their voices, to play upon the
ears of the audience, the listening
herds, falling asleep to the
world of the otherworldly, the
ghost voices that cry out, trapped
between this rock and a better place,
wandering souls

Autism

and I am waiting for an answer
and we are waiting for an answer
all we mothers, legion though we
may be invisible to each other

give me a ticket out of Holland--I
hate it here--and I will rend
the very heavens apart if I do not
get my answer

from the fine-suited, the glib, the
workers of numbers injecting toxins into
the flesh of my flesh, my inviolate,
my lovely one

who has stripped off again and smears
his s... upon the walls, another
dirty protest--but wait til you
see ours

I hope your legs quiver behind the
pipe and drape, your mouth too dry for words,
incomprehensible, squeaking mice held in
line by the various alphabet soups

who hand out the money

what price my son's life?
what price indeed?

and we are waiting for an answer,
and our mouths will not be stopped,
and we will cry out until we have
an answer
an apology
anything except the
prettied spin of the
machine (ka-ching!!)
who delivered us to this place

Janjaweed

janjaweed in suits they were
roiling the tongues within their heads, tissues
drenched with pure poisons,

vitriol, those who would skin the very flesh
of a family, to tan it under the hot sun, on the sidewalk
after the elapsing of twenty days

to pack up their meagre belongings, the
spit-stained cloth, papers bundled
with twine,

poisoners of well water with their
inky lies, the sneers of their faces, complacent-fat,
tubs of butter in two-large suits and gator shoes,
turning the very milk in the cow sour

slink back, you creatures, into your
saracen tents, your bland brick buildings--
you shan't stain your blades today

Fordham Road

perched there, on the curb facing Alexander's,
as the clots of traffic streak past, shiny
hard shells, metallic, too bright swerve,
erratic, he is as still as a bird before
flight, dressed for the tropics in
summer whites, waiting to cross Fordham
Road, but, standing so he seems
angel-like, a clean-ness above the
smudged colors of the Concourse, that palette
of blood-crimsons, warm browns, tar-sticky black
riddled with glass, jewel-sparkling
---and see him take flight, unfurling
white wings to soar across the road, to
come to rest square on the top off the "A"
of Alexander's, cool whites still sharp and
clean, hat at a jaunty angle as he
smooths his wings down, surveying the
terrain, cement caverns, the grand
boulevard stretching too, the red-white-
and blue recruiter, the movie house and
synagogue, the Chinese restaurant with the
red and gold tasseled lanterns beckoning,
beckoning with their promise of foreign mysteries,
the house of the blind, too, and the house
of the poet close by the crumbling grandstand,
splintered benches, carnival colors splashed
here, there, deliberate thumbprints--he sees
all, you see, and, grabbing his hat, braces
his wings for the next big upsurge: the
voyage to heaven takes more than several
station stops and changes, and he, most
obviously, was wise to this

Fragment

the glaze is cracked into a hundred
pieces, veinlike brown, channels, spidery
lines rivermarks across the pottery
brown like earth
each mark a break, marking time,
the passing of the sun each day
into night, weird script in which
we can read nothing, yet still we
see the delicate strokes

once part of a matched set--now
a stray, all alone, on top of
the heap, pale color among the
brights, silently surveying the
other wrecks, the non-degradable
sherds of modern prosperity, plastic-
loud, inpenetrable, is an orange
barstool stuck into the earth at an
angle, four feet shiny tines pushing
down, taking root, the vinyl crown of
leafy torn petals yet unfurled,

grass grows around the edges--green ring,
verdant mossy, bold in the face of
all this black waste, chipped pottery the
smirking teeth exposed, grinning earth

Communion

water, fish, bread, wine,
and life
the stones I shout through
are spittle-smoothed--
waves cannot drown me out now,
chanting out again--
water, fish, bread, wine,
and life

water for washing, to run through
my fingers, muddying it with
dyes and soapscum, residue of
velvety suds, frothful, cascading
water of life with all the
unicellular creatures whose names
I have forgotten, water of life,
struck from desert rocks now worn
to sand

the fish, scaly swimmers, their neat
gills dragging in oxygen, shimmer,
flashbright under water, there,
rainbow-mailed
fluidly moving upstream to
leap and fall
to other sides, to placid pools,
spawn in the dark wet,
clouds humming with life,
saltpearls to smash upon toast

soft belly of bread, dusted-over
with flour-talc powdery smoothness--
punch it down
and again
punch it down
tear through the sticky center,
feel the heft weighing against
your wrists
nestled in a blue bowl,
set it to rise, and rise again
(if the yeast has done the work:
tempermental yellow germ)
cover it with clingfilm plastic,
cosset it with tea towel
brown it, bake it,
serve it with cool tiles of
butter, knife-softened,
spread like soft cement, knife-trowelled
back and forth

liquid-red, rosy-hot, throat-warming--
sloshed in the gold bowl held
by slender stem
bloodred, trickling down, a
complement to bread-white flesh,
courses through the veins,

water of life,
water into the wine of
all life
ruby hotness, jewel drops to warm
the hearts of all men,
washing them clean
with the heat of it,
antiseptic washing away
the residue of ashes-in-the-mouth:
a sad condition

all life: the water, fish, bread and
wine
how well they complement each other
each part a part of a whole
never apart, the
swirling, tri-partite whole
revolving, an inpenetrable mass
for all our eternities

Aphra Behn

he--was a ball of wax, this
man, this Willum
shiny, rosen-cheeked, an
Important Person from that
establishment of higher
education in New Jersey
across the river: miles away

sitting, purring Southerner, reading over
soon to be greenbacked comments on
medieval texts--yet in page proof--
marked with hasty hand

eyes like grey beads--his--she
wanted to have them on
a string, that pure, that
grey color, free them
from that rosy wax, that
drawling soft-purr voice

but she turned back, to
process the copyrights of the latest
green tome, arrange for the
royalties to be paid

his striped shirt quivered
when he huffed,
diminutive bumblebee-man
fat tyrant

he took quiet-tiny steps--when he
leaned close she could taste the
sugar on his breath

his briefcase, burnished shiny,
had an animal look to it--
she wanted to scratch it, leave long
nailmarks, bare her talons, her
small talents, her injuring fingers

Yes, (on the telephone) yes, I
have sent you your author's
copies, they're in the mail,
now, good-bye, Mrs.
Greenbaum (your history of
Shakespearean humor was not
as amusing as I'd hoped)
you should
be receiving them soon

her contract--10% on copies
1-1999, 15% on copies 2000 to
infinity, the cover design to be done by
her brother-in-law, the
New Yorker cartoonist

how soon before we are
all
remaindered?

the praying-mantis wife of the
president stalked the halls--
--would she gobble our heroine--no, she
was too big a mouthful, too
stubborn to be devoured

Mrs. Gordon's wedgewood eyes were on
stalks--carefully dyslexic when it came to
royalty statements--her hair scraped
back effortlessly--yet--how her
clothes hung on her,
those scraps raised to elegance,
her body: thin, bone fine,
white bread slightly browned

and the head woman, the top
editor who kept snakes in her
office, her pale porcine
son:

--and would he go to Choate, or
Milton, as his father had,
was the question she overheard

as she searched for the
Behn file--did it drop
behind the cabinet, careen
into some crevice--
perhaps it was sucked
out the window, and
like hundreds of leaves,
squared flowers, snowflakes,
exploded over Madison Avenue,
shattered white

bone hardened,
typing
no sir, we cannot do
a history of frogs, and
for this, sincerely, the
editorial assistant,
sincerely makes her regrets,
most sincerely

Intermission

these are the people made of silk and wool-
joints strung with spun-fine floss,
pinkwhite sinews, flesh fatty on the
bone, beef to the heel

and carmined lips flash, a bloody
gash, talking, talking, talking---
will she never stop---she does--
corking her mouth with gold-tipped cigarette

as smoke spirals her eyes rove, here
to there, the minutes of intermission
ticking past on her thickjewelled wrist,
two acts have passed, the pages of

the program already creased and bent,
she lounges, catlike, on a chair,
imbibing the lights, swallowing them
whole, goldglobes insubstantial food

the man, meanwhile, paces, nervous
anticipatory steps, eyes fixed glaze-
gaze on the door, waiting for the
grand entrance of another

who speaks her part in stops and
starts, nonetheless, her language
soothes him, her vowels and
consonants morphine to his veins,

she soothes him--and so he waits,
pacing, apace, caged by the smooth
bannisters, the tricky carpets that
trip one, urban pitfalls for our
urbane pratfalls--oh, catch me before I
fall, let me drink from you, parasitic,
give me your words so that I can
chew them to soft pulp for the lining
of my nest

the bells ring--the play ends--and
starts again, the man lingers,
longing for what will not come, the
woman rises and glides, shimmering
fabric, so durable and fine

Flesh

In how many guises flesh is formed:
in every age some lean, some
corpulent, bone frames tall or
short to carry it all

so many folds--and fat--or
the tight-taut stretching over of
skin after it is knife cut

so many slopes-and points-and
paunches and wrinkles, irregularities
woven over with silvery-snail
stretchmarks, striations, the map of a life
written in flesh

Edgings

the marigolds make a mad border-
orangebrown petals spiral round
and shine up at the sun

hemming in the rank weeds, the
green overgrowth studded with
slategrey stones, mossy backed,

velvet patchwork, accidental colors

tempered by time, climate, and
conditions

crumbled leaves choke the thick-toothed
grate, the asphalt creeps close,
the blisters of tar pebbled with
gravel-edges, a coastline of blue slate
edged into earth
surrounded by the green-green-
green ever growing taller to the sky

Eamonn Doran's

dance for a new year--across the
carpet smooth-stroked by the
whitecoated cleaners--their
calm faces so contrast
these two in the mad dance
wild, hand to hand, as a
new year barrels in

brushing against a table
shrouded in linen, gleaming
cutlery silver-bright knife slashes,
empty glasses bellshapes billow
above their slim stems, brittle chime as they break

mirror catches sight of the greenglass,
brokenedged hungry teeth aching for
a taste of blood, marvelous tool,
so handy to hold, crack-smashed
against the brass lip of the bar

see them dance--see their eyes
flash bright in anger

(as an aside
see the eyes in the photos on
the wall, those framed by
dull polished brass, smooth dark woods,
surrounded by sepia tone,
all the old men, the grey men, so sure
in their years, their words mouthed
over until no more than meaningless prayers
ave, ave, ave, save us from ourselves--
see too, the semi-legendary of sport, the
colors placed next-to-next, codes to
read to understand old rivalries,
sport as war subdued: it blares
from the box, video fresh,
weekly new)

hand to hand now
cheek to cheek now
as glass grinds now
by the eye now

butcher hand twists and carves,
feral, foul handiwork this,
his heart still bleeds black
in exile--no stitches can
save--or staunch--that fetid mass
fleshy fat, yet empty

The Wheels on the Bus

yellow comes through green
on the four wheels that
bring him home to me--
my wise child
my brown-eyed boy
pulling away from me
a kite
a wild satellite of
an even stronger moon

careening around the room--
catch me mother, catch me,
hold me, no, don't hold
me

your touch does not soothe--
it is as sandpaper--
but she holds him, and
holds him, chewing on
the meat of her heart in
her mouth, bloody raw, stinking
it chokes her, it chokes her

Burning Daylight

burning daylight--see here--touch
the match to the edge of the
day wobbling from the bowl-
gelatin-smooth, it is still
malleable, transparent, tasteless,
waiting for our imprint to be
pressed into it, the flavors
and spicings so hard thought
of the night before
to do, to do--what to do, what
to do indeed

the edges smoke up, thin,
wispy white, ghosts of
all those wanted things fast
hurrying away--oh life, ah
love, the script disappearing
as it appears--it curls and
curves and sneers, too, twisting
back to taunt--see here--I am
no more--I evaporate to air

and you will remain, and will
remain, for a space and
then again for yet another space,
fingers singed with the
matches, matchless, used to
burn time, oh so casually,
with a flip of the
wrist

always hungry for more--
daylight is so--insubstantial--
now here, now there, we
try to make a meal, secure
some flesh to sear, shore up our
reserves for the night-ness
of the days to come--as
they will, stern soldiers staring
down their noses--another and
another, marching, marching on

as daylight burns whitehot, burning
our thin tissues of memory folded
safe away, the blueprints inked
too soon, patient pages sighing,
no more, no more, no more

Lamplight

the light flutters, flickering
against the fourwalled glass enclosure
blue, blue, frantic like mothwings
beating, trembling terrible heart

shuddering to nothing, black blankness,
the loss of illumination shrouding
the grass blades in dark, the
cool dark

breathing upon your neck, whispering,
oh yes, you, wending its way,
weaving itself through your hair,
the splayed fingers on your side,

tapping fingers--oh yes, you, the
light flutters, frantic beating
itself out, the damp dark
beating it out, the cool cloth

of the night air stripping away
bloodwarmth, hot breath,
the residue of sweat, clean air,
the night air, scouring away until

a second moon faces me, pale-mugged,
bone dry, a whitened hulk

Garbage

and Wednesday is collection day--
black bags bulge, larval,
ready to burst, crammed full

of unwanted things--the lost
lines, the disappointments, the
dishes come undone in the

crucial moment when custard
turns to scrambled egg (so much
for that trifle, layered with
yellow cake and raspberry jam)

lost lines, lost letters, cello wrap,
clingfilm plastic, remnants of
meals, scarred sticks of furniture,
our old utensils, sad garments,
odds and endments, flotsom snared
in nets of plastic, waiting for

the Wednesday-men to rumble by,
snatching at these things--once
so lovely, so bright, so new

Department of Public Works

wait until bedlam subsides--
the white grains scraped from pavement
stick, tenacious, unyielding,
crystalline strong structures foiling
manmade metal

scattering the salt, rough seasoning
for the streets, as they talk,
each to each, through the air,
jesting of this and that,

through the lace curtains of ice
blinding sight, hands thickened
with cold and double-plied gloves
forging on up hills, to dead ends, to
the quiet cul-de-sacs blanketed
with the white that deadens sound
so thoroughly
a respite from wheel-
squealing, the engine-roars
replaced by the slow steady sound
of salt scattered wide, curb to
curb, (or close enough) to clear
our way, to cut a path,

to leave us free to walk again
unblocking the black arteries that
join us, one to one, to everyone

Mo bhron

oh love (the rain is falling)
will you look on me when
I lie long on your grave

eyes blinded with salt-water,
tracing the letters of your name,
over and again until the

letters rhyme with the beat of
my heart echoing back, a
sad refrain, oh love, my

lost one, my soul will fly
across the sea to meet yours,
to comingle in the mist

at once together and apart,
watching the waves crashing on the rocks,
as the seabirds wheel and cry

46th Precinct

resurrect, 46-Adam boy, did you read?
Adam has a ten o'clock meal, central. He
has a date with this Eve, and there's
this apple, see, they mean to eat...

central, the address comes in as 2-2-5-6 Walton,
two-eddie on the two, could you
ten-five the job?

check and advise, our ways and ends and
the means we use to get there, the
chronic call we get, midnight to eight
in the grey sleep-stupid dawn the
shapes change, are uncertain in the mind

no further, no further, no callback
either

Adam, you on the air? Adam, what's your status?

Check and advise as the moonlight silvers
over the redbrick, yellowbrick buildings,
thick-grey cement holding it all together,
rough icing for these baked blocks

EDP ranges, circles the room once again,
claws at the wooden squares of the floor,
so thingrained and exact

EMS has been called,
resurrect 46-Adam, resurrect