h o m e........
p a s t   i s s u e s....
s u b m i s s i o n s....
l i n k s





… rain / rain / rain, episodes punctuated by rain,
lives, really, and I’m imagining the dailiness of daisies,
gold centered doilies against the seasonal scream
of dying color. Dried corn, that falling-leaf palette
we feel spooked by without knowing why. Wardrobe?
We’re inside the world of aprons, the small orbits
of cake tins and hatboxes. Props, we need two ladders.
A world lit by gaslight, moonlight. Let the dark
seep all around us. Every action has a shadow.
The night was always vaster than we know.
We are not the stars. The stars are
elsewhere, appalling, throbbing out of reach.
No one player is closer to them than any other.
I want you to remember that.
I want you to fall asleep with your mouth open
so I can put something exquisite in it.
I beg for your brilliant humility. Though you can’t be
more ordinary, more unregarded, more anonymous,
I’m counting on you to bear your heads
like torches, torches across the stage.


It’s not what you surmise; this abode, this abiding,
is no state for those with habits of impedance,
those unable to complete.

Homes where boxes stay unpacked or walls part-painted,
a room where thin pattern tissue remains pinned to
fabric never finished into

dress (despite her fondness for those small rose roses
on black background, longed-for pleats of Juliet sleeves
left unstitched . . . but I digress)—

Earth-work survives messy process, half that/ half this.
To sustain our decommissioned domain demands
constant imagining,

each me each moment keeping one piece, holding on.
That’s how we’re holding up.



Copyright © 2011 Literary Pool, Inc.