The Fork-in-the-Road Indian Poetry Store
I.
i saved my energy as i read,
like managing held-breath underwater
so i could extend my survey
and not miss anything great
The Fountain
My dear, your eyes are weary;
Rest them a little while.
Assume the languid posture
Of pleasure mixed with guile.
Outside the talkative fountain
Continues night and day
Repeating my warm passion
In whatever it has to say.
The Fox Bead in May
The kiss is, strictly speaking, a passing
of of twice: a bead from her mouth to his,
then back, ad nauseam, and the boys who lived
and died for it. The lovely girl amassing
ninety-nine spirits, and in high spirits
for consuming her highest amount. Once
the hundredth boy arrived she starts her hunt
in her haunt, a hill’ s field filled with fitting
Artemisia absinthium.
And every day they kissed to swap the bead
and for a month he waned and wans
The Fox's Foray
A fox jumped out one winter’s night,
And begged the moon to give him light.
For he’d many miles to trot that night
Before he reached his den O!
Den O! Den O!
For he’d many miles to trot that night before he reached his den O!
The first place he came to was a farmer’s yard,
Where the ducks and the geese declared it hard
That their nerves should be shaken and their rest so marred
By a visit from Mr. Fox O!
Fox O! Fox O!
The Fox's Foray
A fox jumped out one winter’ s night,
And begged the moon to give him light.
For he’ d many miles to trot that night
Before he reached his den O!
Den O! Den O!
For he’ d many miles to trot that night before he reached his den O!
The first place he came to was a farmer’ s yard,
Where the ducks and the geese declared it hard
That their nerves should be shaken and their rest so marred
By a visit from Mr. Fox O!
Fox O! Fox O!
That their nerves should be shaken and their rest so marred
By a visit from Mr. Fox O!
The French Marshall
McMahon up the street of Paris came,
In triumph from Magenta. Every one
Had heard and praised the fearless marshal’s name,
And gloried in the deeds that he had done.
Crowds packed the walks, and at each seperate glass
A face was set to see the hero pass.
The French Prisoner
If only I could forget him, the Frenchman
I saw outside our quarters, creeping round
near daybreak in that density of garden
as if he'd almost grown into the ground.
He was just looking back, peering about him
to check that he was safe here and alone:
once he was sure, his plunder was all his!
Whatever chanced, he'd not be moving on.
The friend
We sat across the table.
he said, cut off your hands.
they are always poking at things.
they might touch me.
I said yes.
Food grew cold on the table.
he said, burn your body.
it is not clean and smells like sex.
it rubs my mind sore.
I said yes.
I love you, I said.
That’ s very nice, he said
I like to be loved,
that makes me happy.
Have you cut off your hands yet?
The Friends of Heraclitus
Your friend has died, with whom
You roamed the streets,
At all hours, talking philosophy.
So, today you went alone,
Stopping often to change places
With your imaginary companion,
And argue back against yourself
On the subject of appearances:
The world we see in our heads
And the world we see daily,
So difficult to tell apart
When grief and sorrow bow us over.