[UNTITLED]
Part
1
In body
the place between noumenal
&
phenomenal chasm’s
a
cradle brushed with water
tempuraed
I
am afraid of this hate.
Someone
waved the Cadillac flag
into
the sky.
The accountant took fire
to
make jack-o-lanterns
into
little nests.
Anthropomorphized
music
little
bird walking in street
perpendicular
as
good as rocks once gathered
as good as haecceity
in
the back of a green car
as
the feeling I
get
from this
is
not the feeling
of
the tufts of clouds
or
the analytic muse
or
barrette in Atlanta
or
the feeling that you get
wearing
the peasant
or
the shiny duck dress.
I
crossed the street beside them
all
with a mobile phone
dyed
purple and writ girlish
in
new skin and hair.
The
one place where the phone will ring
in
between walls
of
the tennis court
swatting
at flies
walking
in circles through trees
until
I get to the here.
I am
afraid
of all the love.
I stand in line and eat a peach
while
the bus meanders up the block
swatting
waving swatting more
in
between walls and other folks
blue shoes blue hair blue water pail
purple
chugging ochre
driving
past
making a cup of tea
I
am afraid of stories
but
not of the telephone.
Eternity in dimes.
The bus chugs past.
And
if you can think of
the
green, we will be
happy to eat candy.
Part 2
Are
you listening
poems
are over my heart
a
quiddity of green
done up over the blue
oh
I’m not sure what the blue
has
to do with the
listening
or the
prophets
or the coral
or
the tabula brushed with
gaze & indecision
the
mimetic representation
of
the camera
far
from abstract
&
beside the water the other sea
grazing
the houses of stone
where
the orphans make their memories
swathed
in red & black tat-tat
ethic
of the nondescript story
a
locked box of natural things
as
I see into their pasts I
break
out into spring
it
is a hundred years older
than
the grass beneath the porch &
there’s
opera in the window
a
mother leaning
with an old theory
blond girls run in the yard
&
their eyes are wide open
in
April
A
Word
Almost deaf at it
a
body gone
a
body is gone
on
the road a black pen
differential
volume &
yen
at the crux
the sun leaning into
the
early garden
in
circuits of red
it returns home to its
path of sundom
into the gaze of wake
the flowers burning
while I’m talking on the phone
a
glittery suited man
comes
to my door to bring
day
& night in fragments of
what
we once called this
&
I’m above below
the city knows rain
the
rags of the year
in
red
a
silver blue
pencilled question
as
I count the cars
&
bundle up my house & leave
the associations
one
has of ethic
I
have of half
at day
on Ponce de Leon or
driving
through Sweet Auburn
beneath
the folded sky
that
pre-dawn moment
when
motion starts
an
arm of lilies
the
scent of honeysuckle
flying
a kite
that’s
not black
that’s
not white either
sky
structure of the possible &
woe
is not this
or situated
Part 3
A resemblance
under white Christmas
I answer:
starfish, kiss, open
associate
the
final drink with
the
car I’ll be driving
of
birth &
reconnaissance
&
the
man’s name is
written
on the wall
in
bright red
of agency
& whiteness
I
curdle in
& then stand up
to
see the two
of
the diffusion
invisible
on
the duckish sea
He
picks up a scythe
&
pins an angel to the
top
of the nickeled
tree
& I want the angel
breath
of the
buttons
On the lake the Madonna
over
the tops of attention
I
park the car, get out
&
fold my hands
into
the fifth circle of
indiscriminate
love
&
I brush a bird
up
against a sign & I
see
the people kneeling close
I
sleep alone
&
am held by
the corner
& coming out of the corners
after
I wake up
the
light smell of the E
No
one sees me board it—
no
one’s at the marriage of
the nod and jiving
where
I mistook one for
a
look—
the
keeper of the train
reminds
me that the lake is
keen
on Monday mornings
I
put out my hands &
make a fresh moi
from
the two
colors
of the sun
shining
I
walk in circles
to
meet the day
& stand close
to
what I cannot be granted
for
the assemblage is
ratio
& cool
cooler
than the water & not
as cool as a formalism
or
a cyclic
imagination’s song
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