Reading Your Posthumous Collection Backward
The sweetness of another world arrives,
through the small openings, late, page 400
or so, but that’s where I’m starting,
The Creak of Loneliness
The leg drapes like a story half-told, bare ankle, sock sagging, a loose thread of someone who once stayed longer
The We
we cars, we jewelry. we hey hey
at shorties who are often forward.
we unbelievable, two tone, cut
with or can’t be cut from.
The Hummingbird
I hate it when poets pretend they don’t know anything about their own writing processes and get arty and mysterious when asked about it, claiming in a zillion different ways that they ‘receive’ their poems from the Beyond, or that the poems already exist in the abstract and that they, the poet, just ‘discover them,’ etc. I’ve been hearing a lot of this kind of thing lately. I think it comes in waves.
The Sadness of Morning Glories Out of Season
Why do their wilted vines still cling to walls,
to porch supports, to trellises? So dry
and desiccated, it seems that they should fall
back in the dirt. The seasons slide on by,
The Word of the Day Is Widdershins
which sounds fun and elfin, like that
dance that leprechauns do, hobnail boots
clicking with glee or maybe something a
confused rabbit in coattails might say
when he’s lost his way: