Turt

There is a way to be curt with a field. The runnels of self-pity, the sludge of preponderance. I don’t use words aright, alway. I am dumb as a post. I mean dead as  a post.  A goat cast asunder a ship. The sounds come out wooden. This must be the sea left over. I went where the sea met the mud, the slag of the alluvial guts of some dragon-sing, the earth’s spit and image. So I am curt with the field, a-winter the shelved bark I gnaw like a scarab come home. And that is me protesting love. I mean into you a field of sound. Green as.

Deep

Deep, impersonal bridge
no longer used,
isolated, broken in bits,
I salute thee,
half-deadly and boring,
the kids loved to visit you,
to smoke, kill things, cry at clouds
they thought about too long,
have their first kiss,
maybe first something more,
ask who Cindy Sherman is,
first groundhog shot
and furtherama of tears,
self-torture, lotteries
of the souls of other people,
sleeping with them,
owning them, being owned,
abandoning pets
who probably died alone,
and finally,  one of them
left hanging from it,
while the others
weathered on
into age, nostalgia
for being where no one
would ever think to look for you.

here is a field

after H.D.

here is a field
and here there were people
which means charged space
in a void,
which means charged space
and steeplejacking
of some sort

here is a field
and here there was a field
which means echo sound
of echo feeling
and steeplejacking
of a natural sort

here is a field
and a glass of water
frozen on a stump
somewhere in that field
as a demonstration of method,
of indistinguishable mind,
and the glass waits
only to freeze to the stump,
to give the universe punctuation,
not a bad thing

lastly, here is a field
of vampires, of feeling
frozen on a stump
somewhere in that field
as a demonstration of passion,
a sort of Ark with funny animals
that even children somehow know,
troublesome animals
in the sense they must be loved
or at least amuleted

and that is the beginning of justice.

Royal Scam

A window that cared deeply
about the railroad in its breast.

There was a Catherine wheel in the back yard
and a Cassandra in the guest house, paid.

All our forks were wooden.
But all our knives were copper.

This created an incredible sexual tension
between our implements at mealtime.

Later, we gilded even the mice
we beheaded in our traps.

This was when we really arrived.
This was the glorious period in which

nobody knew us

(but the ferrets that slunk
around our naked breasts).