from “Wind Rose”

 

 

Standing in this glue trap I can feel

The breeze writing its statistics in real

Time, a flower of so far

& maybe again soon

& the moon, returning

On a schedule at odds

With the months. Surprise

Early scent of the dogwood

Like opening your phone

To porn you forgot to close. In

The dusk, I thought the tree

Was a person, so I slowed. Sometimes

A shadow is a lie & sometimes

It’s the sort of story you build

Your life around, filling the cave

With spit, sealing envelopes on love

Letters to whoever holds the fire.

 

[...]

 

I report a high feeling of belonging

On the survey. Three crows

Hopping around outside the supermarket,

Dodging cars, eating whatever. Attar

In the wax in Derek’s poem. A bit

Of sacerdotal math wakes the cat

Graph-theoretic flock of birds

Past the pane, opposite of home.

 

 

* * *

 

 

[...] The tiny eyes of chitons

Are called aesthetes & form

An image. Everything you ever loved turns

In its report to the sun god, full of charts,

Recommendations, documented

Inefficiencies in the government of your

Heart. The catfish lying dormant

At the bottom of the pond, growing

As large as his environment

Permits, different from imperialism but not

Completely. The turkey

Vultures sun & never leave

Your line of sight.

 

I fill in

For the qualified sound

Engineer, adjusting levels. The three

Mics lean forward, heads

Down, like they’re done

With the state test early. I write

Their names on white tape

And the numbers of the lines I’ve put them

Through, none of the ones marked bad

Or reserved for the overhead

Cardioids, hearts on wires

Suspended above the stage.

On the night of the show a fox dies

In a trap it didn’t see

Nowhere near the singers

Controlling their breath

To sing “Simple Gifts”

 

[...]

 

A blue light in the fish tank, simulating

The moon. My former student

Tweets about how much they love the word

Saudade. Basil used to sleep

In a wooden box in the little lookout

Area of the swingset, at the top of the slide.

 

He was right

At eye level so you could stand there

And listen to him dream.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Another day being

The apostrophe in I’ve

Meant to tell you this for such a long time

 

But since I keep failing to it’s kind

Of part of the texture of the air

Between us now, no?

 

Memory, a dent in dough

You put an olive in.

The forecast calling for snow

 

[...]

 

Joan Mitchell painting

“Clearing” in 1973. A dollmaker

buys life insurance & borrows

Against it. The deer I named

After regrets I had, because even

When all you do is look outside 

They flee. Searching in the box

For the crayon labeled Mercy,

A soft purple. I find the half

Without the tip

 

 

Cow Journal

 

 

Day 1: ate grass

 

Day 2: ate grass

 

Day 3: ate grass

 

Day 4: ate grass

 

Day 5: ate grass

 

Day 6: ate grass

 

Day 7: ate grass

 

Day 8: grass