I want to reach you —
in that city where the snow
only shimmers silver
for a few hours. It has taken
seventeen years. This trip,
these characters patterned
in black ink, curves catching
on the page like hinges,
this weave of letters fraying
like the lines on my palm,
all broken paths. Outside,
no snow. Just the slow pull
of brown on the hills, umber
dulling to a bruise until the city
is just a memory of stained teeth,
the burn of white marble
one lies in rags on the street
and his stomach is empty
and he wishes for death
one sits with friends at tea and backgammon
and his mind is empty
and he wishes for death
one sits in a straight-backed chair at a desk
and his bank account is empty
and he wishes for death
one lies in bed staring out to sea
and the place next to him in bed is empty
and he wishes for death
one flies back with food in its beak
and its nest is empty
and only this one says
we should give it another try
Off-season and in
the burnt forest
of my nightgown, a feral
undergrowth that marks
me as burial site —
to be still enough or
just enough.
My arms become fat arms:
hearth. I eat dirt for doubt,
a secret bleached
old as lie. I out-want
like a spindly
winged monster.
If I were a bug —
were I — then you'd hope
for reparation, and paint
more brown into the plot.
Once when I was harmless
and didn’ t know any better,
a mirror to the front of me
and an ocean behind,
I lay wedged in the middle of daylight,
paper-doll thin, dreaming,
then I vanished. I gave the day a fingerprint,
then forgot.
I sat naked on a towel
on a hot June Monday.
The sun etched the inside of my eyelids,
while a boy dozed at my side.
The smell of all oceans was around us —
steamy salt, shell, and sweat,
but I reached for the distant one.
A tide rose while I slept,
1.
They make such uncomfortable clank
child of earth
child of fire
These are your tools of the trade
difficult when you use them
A large trunk with children darting
in all directions
appears slippery in its sheen
adorned with thorns
I have sinned in front of mirrors
But I'll say this
in my defense —
Too scared to face my indecency
the voice with a larynx
big as mangoes too —
I took your voice burnt with tabaco
They say you must first imitate
before your tongue
jagged in novice
can ripen a word
shape it along color
before words being enough
change what's before you
Let’ s not wrestle with water
anymore —
Enters until we flexible
in its acceptance
Persistent in entering
through green or brown windowpanes
jagged from years of sun
Lights out
across the street yr candle
dances still or
flashlight we send
signals
interrupted by slinging branches
Tonight is O. K. —
after all
you walk by the window
tip yr head at the orange sky blue lightning
partially our rainbow
The old Russian spits up a plum
fruit of the rasping sound
he has stored in his throat
all these lonely years
made in fact lonely by his wife
who left him, God knows
without knowing how to cook for himself.
He examines the plum
notes its purplish consistency
almost the color and shape of her buttocks
whose circulation was bad
which is why he himself wears a beret:
black, good wool, certainly warm enough
the times he remembers.
or The Unfortunate Story of the Unmarried Flora Carrillo
And the Man Who Loved Her Before He Died his Famous Death,
From Whose Single Liaison a Daughter Was Born
And the Advice, Rather the Explanation,
Both of Them Left for Her, And the Story Also
Of What She Became, and That She Was Happy
Yes, but beyond happiness what is there?
The question has not yet been answered.
No great quotations have issued forth
From there, we have no still photographs
Full of men in fine leather hiking boots,
Women with new-cut walking sticks.
So yes, it is the realm of thin tigers
Prowling, out to earn even more stripes;
It is the smell of seven or eight perfumes
Not currently available in America.
Maybe this is wrong, of course.
The place may after all be populated,
