This Version of Love... More
I could say hello to things.
The hand’s wave,
when it comes –
Too hot and humid to do more than drowse
And slip – who knows how brief the interims? –
Into a chafed unconsciousness,
Patiently, ticket by ticket, a soft-stepped crowd
advances into the mimic ship’s hull half-
sailed out of the foyer wall, as if advancing into
somebody else’s dream –
What am I? A crushed hominid.
A can of couscous, seeding.
A shudder of my former self, a
self-defrosting fridge. Good
For months Mozart has been so crucial I haven’t played him.
The winds, filibustering the house, have heard
the chimney crackle and the paint strain
while the old obsessions went ignored. What was the More
The sky is starling-filled granite, this open country
veneered with estates sudden as dark water rising. Main Street