Wednesday, March 05, 2008


It’s a sunny day like this

From the rooftops I think the chain fence

Is come to.

I think of the kids dancing to some rowdy

Music passing in a car.

There is disaster strapped to a cloud

Shaped this time like Thomas Edison

The inventor of the wax sound tube,

Of the wind gauge and needles

Against skin to test the heart

For strength.

But from here I can’t really help

The hole in the world. That Chevy truck

Still lean to in the ditch for some week now,

I can’t resurrect the winter to freeze,

Nor poke out a loop of birds to pass on.

No, the grass is all grown

So far as I think of growing

I might consider when I’ll fall asleep

And slip off this roof, or when the arms

Come through the crack in the door

And nudge the lock off her perch, so

Long as I can still point easy at my own head

Like I was scratching or pulling the trigger,

Why not go hopelessly on a relaxed memory

And the clouds come apart into paper wads,

Toss themselves in the wastepaper basket.

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