there’s a dark patch of land along the river, among bamboo shoots, this shade, found by a path into these shallow woods and there you led me. the moment was brief and casual, and we hid it away like others before, I remember a breeze and you in wading
there seems to be a momentum to this that’s caught me off guard. the start was so subtle that I don’t recall the start, she was only entering her eighteenth year and should be distant in connection, but the amber of conversation continues to glow; on reflection: the
I. Newspaper paper crinkles And dad’s in his robe, He doesn’t read your Sports You don’t read the rest. II. Sleep is important, It was just confirmed, But the professor isn’t buying, “College isn’t for sleep or dining.” III. The city has spots For early
this gentle woman only met minutes ago on a beach on a bay giving waves away this recently released compact disc ashore comes sound advice by way of bright creation like seaweed she pushes no lyrics just instruments, found noise better known as field recordings and maybe she’s got
Before you go again, let’s solve intersubjective riddles before this next death – vain salience between two (me and you) using learned dramatic methods to project lines of defense, to throw shutouts with frequency, to pull cloverleaves on highways like weeds and I don’t know where we’re headed.
I. This is not the last poem I ever wrote, barring no collapse or freak combustion before this pen strikes again – the sequel to the B-movie of my life in which I get the roll of the overly ambitious telemarketer who calls insistently at nine A.M. on Saturday morning
(a borrowed Song from Adrienne Rich) You’re wondering if I’m happy: OK then, no, I’m not happy as the viper inside a cage searches for an escape, pressing its nose against the glass against the screen on top, smelling the air of freedom You want to ask,
I. In albums as large as pools of tremendous depth And placed where distinguished avenues cross dirt trails, Photographs demonstrate how life should be, whispering Suggestions that mold clay, voices remain Like stains of Dad’s motor oil on freshly woven fabric – Immortal threads that run through blood. Images of