so … um, er … yeah, there’s this poem-ish thing

There’s this poem-ish thing that surprised me, including how it told me in no uncertain terms that I would end it just as the muse instructed, though my first instinct was to delete-delete-delete. Here goes. It’s been a while. I don’t have a title. I’m in shock that I have a poem. A poem-ish thing!

///

You have said mostly
nothing. Not Please,
no. Not Fuck you.
Not even Good bye.
And I also speak little
about this farewell
we suffer. No damage
from strange summer
earthquakes or hurricanes
but the rubble of this —

I have heard those
who are buried alive
can’t be freed all at once,
the weight upon them
lifted slowly enough
as not to shock
the lungs, the heart,
or flood tissue
with too much
rushing in all at once.

Or is that the theory
about leaving
the knife in the wound? No,
that rule’s about losing
everything, spilling more blood
than is necessary to prove
your point.

///

Or maybe there’s a clue to the title in that last line … I dunno.

a stone in a river, 23

So many fly under false notions
yet Crow’s tail feather breaks

then splits
against a sliver of blue sky.

/ / /

Still casting back to Carolee’s line, “the false notion.”

I saw this for the first time, a few days ago. Crow flew in the fir, and his tail spread against air, leaving a glimmer as he sat. It was lovely. And usual, for those with just the right perspective.

Two, crows. Actually.

catching carolee’s plane

How to Set a Boundary in Units of Moisture

It’s not the silvered wings fault
they think they move,
make progress to some point
identified as necessary:
Gate, Oklahoma or Dodson, Texas
near a magical line on the 100th
meridian that separates wet from dry.

Every signal fires the same
starry glimmer through smoke:
Tears well our eyes and we
are as separate as threads
& can reweave our own pattern.
This fluff of time is all one
cosmic tea, but we who live
in clicks of clocks can serge
an edge in our bolts of cloth,
pink the cut edges. Keep
the threads from ravelling.

/ / /

Skipping stones with Carolee — I like her silvered wings that can’t kiss, in combination with an amazing dream last night concerning vast amounts of the most amazing bolts of cloth I have ever seen, amazing sewing novelties that made me squeal in my dream (no, I don’t sew), a thin ultralight bicycle, and living in Texas. I wish I could paint the clothes for you. Or any of it.

Yes. I have too many metaphors in this. But, well. It’s a first draft of a something.

Read more about the 100th meridian, if you are map nerd like me.

catching stone 22 & tossing it back to deb

Plane, twilight

We keep flirting with this word:
Destination. But he will have none of us.
We’ll have to settle, instead, for taking
his rival Retrospect to bed. The trouble
with turning back to the city of departure is
we’ve been behaving as though

we left it behind.

Silver wings glimmer with the false notion
they fly toward the sun. They’ll never be any closer
than they are now. One way,

or another,

they’ll come back to the ground without
having kissed a single star.

///

Deb’s stone #22 is here; my leaning toward the sun poem is here. This piece kind of loses interest for me after “silver wings,” but I will work with it.