Namesake
1.
The consternation,
of multiples. Every figure is unique,
and with
uniqueness, gathers. It is
your turn
to blink.
A song of wetlands, shores; unravels. Where
are
you going, and where
have
you been? It will take more
than an
anecdote, a pebble, scored forth
against
a body, torn for clues.
2.
Many years
ago: we walked, simultaneously, through
the commercial
fields
of the
world’s largest airports. Unaware, adrift, this
is the
impossible detail
of multiple
languages , of the entire text.
3.
How present
is this narrative? How worn?
This
is neither English. An unheard thing.
Then, from this material. To hear them speak it.
Remembering those weeks I nearly blind.
Remembering
that time I wrote a poem.
Surviving, cottage
1.
The risk,
at which we read the
senses. Morning
fractals,
summertime. Starry points.
A literal translation: our wee monsters advance
the hose, the wading pool, the sprinkler. The temporal similarity
of
bees. This gentle rustling
of maple;
sparkled leaves, a reach of trees impossible
to fathom.
2.
The boundary
of the sentence. Target
birds,
an oriole
or cackling jay.
Incomplete:
the framework of metaphor.
What
the poem
can’t help but resemble, a consequence
of
choice and form, to
interrupt
my patters, speech.
3.
The page
is white but is not blank.
Four poems for Mouse Eggs
1.
This hand-drawn air of musty typescript
on the actual page. Never trust a poem.
Artie and his beautiful chemical:
the Gold standard
of joyous, bittersweet. It is hard to live,
at times. Along Sainte-Catherine Street,
what marginalia
on the edge of the snow. I sometime think
I might chase
nostalgia forever.
2.
I’m afraid that I don’t
know. Dust,
the kind
that suffocates.
3.
This lightning of the possible: mimeo,
hand-stapled. A source
of real words, craft
and inarticulate softscape.
A roar, of eggs. How many must you
break?
