Speech into silence as speech to silence.
~
You know how
it goes. The
the town
given a sing
ular gift—may
be a jade
lion with a
May bloom
ing flow
er
in
its mouth—turns
on it
self. But to
night that
town
is me.
~
Blue jack
et
on the
scare
crow
cross. Some
fake dé
cor spar
row on
it. Such
things
sure
ly just
their
own out
skirts.
~
Scrim
of ash
ice
on my
win
dow. The
ash ice
scrim
ming
fig
ures
the white
repeat
able e
ver de
parting
intel
li
gence of
snow. Flit
flit
flit I
see it. It
is
a
lighting
up
on
what?—some
part
of it
self.
~
You and I
O bunch
of super
market coral alstro
meira flow
ers both sur
vive this dam
aging sun-
action. We
draw in. How
other
wise avoid
it—its hard
man
ner? All’s
still but
for A
manda wal
king lei
surely mid
speech
through
this very
room.
Pinocchio
The dying man can’t lie to us: his tongue
is limestone. It’s light. I’m made
of money under it. The pilot rain stayed.
Linotype of pepper on wet ink of eggs.
This town’s all people who’ve already
met, leaping awake, faintly breathing. I want
to hold you, half-dressed in first darkness. A
doorbell dongs smartly. I was these roses’ sender,
dear—if you see you’ll know—how they perfume
your girlish glooms. Sky a glass full of ice,
cherry flecks. Feet touch. Which song
is sorrow, which ecstasy? Ask the elms. If
only to mild-prune their limbs. The dying man
can’t lampoon us: his finger
is limestone. Limousine of lemon juice
on sundial of salad. I split for you, dim
orange, like a peach. Lengthy delays. Of
darkness, your dawn-charged diurnal lipstick
breaks the circuit: same lips
you whistle and whisper with. Smeck! Breaks
like Parkay wrecks a Montana map. Like
rain wrecks even the best stickwork. A com-
poser, cracked by his own dropped
piano. Now you can forget the elms, now
all that’s heard is music. The wave
of the dark grove makes some
forgetting meld. It’d be business
of yours, their forgetting. Should you
let it. Babe it’d be best.
