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.
Ceramic kisses, gifts,
the jazz, the glaze.
Colorful weeds, fish
with textured scales,
birds with combed feathers.
Decent ladies, after all
and clean. No sweat.
Isn’t it cute? Cute undefined.
The rock is cute, the sun.
The sun is charming, effortless.
A breezy girl in Uggs
(soft suede shearling boots
popular in 2008).
Watch me soup
controlled fall scheme
a dream   a drama   duck
genre-busting
sadness of
advertising
glory
this is old glory
glory after 50
here we go again sometimes
wanting to go nekkid in the home
kids making declarations
declarative imperative
let’s not expose the children
let’s not expose the sun to tender skin
Today damn lucky. Tomorrow murder.
Today trace elements, quartz veins in the matrix.
Tomorrow job interview. Someone
learning to relax, someone with a personality.
Sense of humor?
Where did you learn to talk?
Can you sing? Sing
a lullaby? January,
plains of January. Sky falling,
birds in hiding except for
sturdy gulls.
Carving perilous paths, patient
stepping, holding, watch –
the moment coming. Coolness
on my hand. Eyes tattered,
glasses heavy on my nose.
Left eyelid flickering, flickering
for days. Ambivalent, ready to depart,
difficulty in my legs. To cry, leave
stains of hopelessness. To try,
just need to look. Look,
with yr miraculous glasses.
No longer writing is the goal.
Wabi sabi without knowing it.
Some comfort in the snow.
Something subtle on your fingernails.
Christmas trees littering the curbs.
Glittering the curbs. There’s
no need to be fancy, says Ted Berrigan.
Lorine Niedecker, Thoreau, Snyder.
A certain emptiness.
The emptiness behind lucidity –
where compassion’s born.
Sweat salt shimmers on my glasses.
Sunlight on the counter, tinkling doorbells.
It’s a new year (arbitrary). Writing to “Be”
something that these ladies would respect.
So restful, watery sunlight, like gray velour,
stone boots.
Chocolate.
Tea kettles.
Small, glass,
restful.
Privilege. (Privilege, privilege)
whispers in the back (a whisper).
Sanctity opposed.
Peninsula of here, water
shimmering on all sides,
blue vision, view that
stays with me.
My forest village, my wickiup, my lavuu, my yourt, my mjalla, nfalla, barn on stilts, my cozy turf house, my kuti, my cushion.
Experimenting with
endurance, at cross
purposes. Eventually
home.
She is someone you don’t know.
You half fairy sky
pink and blue delicious
shiver of winter sweaters
outside looking in –
lamplight, the computer,
everything is stoney stoney
fate in colored stones.
Even these,
my withered hands, my mothered lands,
my wickered fronds, my lizard glands,
my wizard wands, my blizzard bonds,
my knickerbockers and the everlasting penniless.
Fear fast speech, warm rooms.
No fear of storms, doors, toothbrushes.
No fear of going downstairs in the dark.
No fear skiing, no worry over falling.
Fear of fear, no fear of sleeping.
Fear of missing sea, but saw the sea of snow,
sparkling darkness in the cemetery,
grandfather mother buried there.