mind wants to rest its reasons
against the framed snowstorm it keeps inside
the living room, caged in Zenith or something Japanese."
Fulton, " Silencer "
Ssssh, don't wake her, napping over there
against the far frontier of her appetites.
Wildflowers pressed between the leaves of her book
have more presence than she, good as earth
From life to afterlife is not tragic. Open
and spit, please. The form was as natural as my taste permitted.
Charts were immobile, not changing. I liked them all,
the sounds I made that day, good with figures, smart and tough,
a native to the land I walked upon.
Dismissive of her poetry, he found the fields
too wet for planting. In this hall where I am speaking to you,
you hear my voice, and together we confront the possibility
that poetry is radically different from all prose, that our borders
are leaky, that a little insecurity is good for us and for all living
A balthazar of champagne, s'il vous plaît.
Or didn't you hear me? I say, "Mango," and the word hangs in the air
like a basket
of apples on a crisp November morning.
Take an egg, for example.
I offer you one. Just reach out now and take it. Your sake
is almost warm.