Poetry: my daughter a purchase, something changes hands blue, green, bronze Poetry: my children saved me split shifts, nine or ten more days the sleeping garden Poetry: long correspondence postcard, Quiet Mind a force of isolation, to swim underwater mostly Poetry: headache constant snow the optic nerve Poetry: the dog with you
Looking for focus, but focus is not there, due to a disorder of the optic nerve. Looks like rows of flags hung off a yacht. Sometimes the floors are level, sometimes not. There are trains. You can get on one. There are absolutes, hug them, clutch them. Can you sit through this?
Straw, bricks, gold. Do I have contact with these things? Yes, mulch in the garden, red bricks edge the garden path, gold design around the edge of plates. Truly brilliant, flawed. I have questions. I am inquisitive, but frightened. Spontaneity walled. I am already in a foreign country, staying a long time.
Floor gone, window gone, door gone. Door returns, floor returns, window back in place. Walls – they move and breathe. Moon shining into house, the open roof. Streetlight. The taking-over garden. My apologies. Here we are in deep cold rest time. My ecosphere, white book of northern hemisphere. Blood, blood, blood is sparkling.
Are you defensive? You wouldn’t talk to mother in that scarlet way. You wouldn’t abuse the poet, confessional before her time. In the wind, in the country, I acknowledge distance and demure. Knowledge, knowingness. When we were not yet tired of trees, those boughs bore heavy fruit that rotted on the ground.
Opening up to sex like sunshine, spent four hours outdoors, hugging leaved earth brown curved, hugging rockform outcropped, hugging single feather bluejay, hugging running brook, hugging walking wind and overlook. Exhale. Exhalation down the valley. Young teaching old. Do you feel better? I’ll stop talking now. I’ll be quiet in the vale.