For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come ...
Song of Solomon, Verse 11-12
Lo, the cell phone sleeps in its cell.
The raven deactivates the horizon.
There is water for everyone,
The particulars of the evening being, whether consciously
evoked or – 'a great shemozzle'
as Kent said –
merely one day washing over and into the depths
The sound of shovels scraping
of men – the night's
clinging still –
Awake to this, or
yet in sleep
you mumble –
on your forehead
'Ten thousand women
The carpet could be cleaner –
so could the world.
There's too much cayenne
in the soup.
The grand abstraction
is one approach
to the poem, I guess –
so too the eye
of the flea.
I can't even taste
Mosquitoes are circling
the light globe –
Norma, dead now
a month. And
after we cast the ...
winter once more and still
'The gestures of delight are her delight.'
Notate October's last hurrah.
'Dear Cameron, You have an undigested
John Forbes influence,' wrote Gig, a decade past.
Digest, instead, the dusk –
the real sea snoring half a mile away
the scrubbed brick walls of the double lounge and its
samples of african drums flood the speakers
Is that your shadow, weightless,
a smudge of grey dust
in the black trickery of the she-oak?
... it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me.
—Sylvia Plath, 'A Birthday Present'
Here's some activity you may have missed:
pompadour-lure hung three days after I
'It misses me.'
The fourth: A ...
cat fed squeezing like the morning
fog between oxidized barbed
wire and gorse
with an older cousin
with a slug gun
booting sheep skulls
stripped by gusts, our fathers'
1950s snares swooped by plovers,
daring: 'yellow spurs! forearms
up!' shooting star-
lings for laughs