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1983-2015
tearing the rag off the bush again
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So rounded a season : the sky
in a few hours, fits
and the moon has a warmth
a harvest --your breasts
overnight --from your heart
everywhere a flickering light
flies open and the moon
heated, already noon

--streams widen from stone to stone
as if this floor still had a secret spot
and voices differ from one another
--you say the dry stones are innocent
the rest venomous, to listen for stones

for the thickening :each stream, you say
and turn toward my lips
--you lift my head as if some star
was falling, only once
and I had to know how it feels
to drown, to be a season
to wait for daylight, to wait
for evening and slowly turn.

*
And though this tar breaks open
it's not Spring --in the curb
a hubcap :soldier-songs

and cannons needed at the front
--you will lift this helmet, surprised
the eyes are still warm, the trees

single file, softer than snowshoes
and letters home --you will lift
the roadway, traffic will stop

and snow muffle the small dent
half smoke, half fever, half echo
--it's hard to believe these trees

live by hearing, a mist
breaking into floes, into wings
and behind the engines

ailerons shaking each windshield
--you try dragging the trees
to safety, to the warm cheek

you hear slip past
as stars do, weighing you down
your arms immense, bending over.




*
Some sooner than others, the cup
cold, damp and then
a singing, hugs, cakes --this table

prepared, its span would enfold
be guided :the tattoo
must be administered --a stranger

and ask for a refill, assure
a stain and its circle

and the chairs somehow now are carried
higher, boiling pots
allowed to touch our shoulders

and a nail where you would expect
the windowpane to drain
--we hang this cup for birdseed
filled --how many times

though the waxes we buy
are already melted, the table
warmer and unshaken.



*
Knots stay put and travelers
have their favorites, listen for squeaks
--I hang my coat and the table

can't move, tied by a great cloth
as if it couldn't hear this bread
shaped like a girl jumping rope
whose braids are all I remember :the knot

still trying --it takes a knife
to creak and keep coming
--I stare at the window left open

undo the laces
and my shoes suddenly warm
stopped calling for home.
 
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