There is no secret sad thing to eviscerate.
I’ve pulled the glass lamps to me
and really no tears crawl there.
A clean interpretation of the fixtures:
nothing to distract but clarity and brightness.
Who cares about the reproduction beach,
the setting right there in a magazine breakfast nook:
What’s the collection overall of preoccupations—
I’m so sure you’d still be here if I weren’t
a column of light. I myself a consequence of light.
A shadow, of late. A boy dribbles for ten,
twenty, thirty minutes out front. Bam, bam, bam.
Where have we left the big nails?
I want to put a nail in the boy’s basketball
while I take stock, oh my creys:
Today Pam at her desk laughing harder—
harder than I ever heard her.
Or the scintillating blue-green of sedan,
the hang of clouds
versus the poise of houses,
those beautifully thrown dice
so out of reach. How
to stab the moment
during the wind-dreams
of these trees. How fast—
laugh this all to sleep by never falling asleep.
He said, Okay is the new fabulous.
How fast until the next beautiful random
that mends the pattern to things
as they are? That sound like a rocket taking off,
the class all staring at the ceiling.