There is a puddle of violets
Behind a house in the snow
It is a hallucination
It is a coming home
The boards of the house
Now, they are filled with wind
They are soaked in rain
The carpet is a brand-new moss one
If there’s any ink left, let it run
A field approaches the house
And tries to engage it by wind
Through the yellow wild grasses
It goes like love mist through the curtains
Still dancing in broken windows
Oh, you have made no mistake
Says the wind to the house as a lover
But the empty house weeps like a sinner
I used to be afraid
of my own rusted screens
the brown palms
of my hands on their overtime
like the hills
you swept them under
I cannot price
of the language we use now
there is a bitterness
there is an equality
it is very much of these flowers
the problem of the personality has been solved
It was solved not for x or y
but this golden field
this nubile cloud above it
I went to a funeral
And a hurly-burly broke out
It was like hockey night in Canada
This strange formula of chairs
Is it the way music is to hold us?
If someone is dead, give them a punch in the arm
If they are in a coffin, they’re in a car
Don’t buttonhole a dead person
Give them a break
Skim the gravy off the top of your grief
They will see you later in your dreams
They will have plenty of time for metamorphosis
That’s pretty much their full-time job now
In fact, you just might be only the Greek Chorus
It is hard to see through those blinds
The way the hands are always trying to see
Through the fingertips
Maybe it opens on an alley
Another narrowness of experience
But maybe it opens like the snow around a streetlight
When you are looking up at night
The immense chrysanthemum of snow
And there is the sting of it in your eyes
Which open wider nonetheless
As if to punish you
You are getting divorced.
Farewell, Congratulations, Welcome Home.
Here, affect this balaclava.
So you put a large bouquet
of pink daisies in a window of full sun.
The daisies are innocent in pinkness,
there are not enough of them,
so tall and wide is the vase.
It is clear crystal, a bellowing
of a bell of tuba mouth,
but only a lip of glass
to support what it’s saying,
or almost so, in being there.
But it is svelte as the heart
of all glass, the desire
to just be silvered, become
a mirror, be done with it.
At least, you think, there is
no ridiculous, portentous
sound such as comes
from a euphonious brass
as morose as that one
can only be, at its orchestral best.
The vase is frugal IKEA,
so let’s intuit a purity of intent,
a touch of the mind of Sweden.
These pink daisies support you
as the sun supports them
now on the stone windowsill
that overlooks the living below,
though the flowers are dead.
Well, not yet. But soon.
Though they are dead,
they sing a sun’s praises,
all the pink daisies,
because the stems they have
would have them finish
what it is they had begun,
and are still quietly drinking,
whatever it is there you give them,
water and an aspirin,
maybe a place to reflect their pinkness,
the city window directly before the units of their faces.
A fairy tale
down the street
by the divorcing
prince and princess.
Gnomes stand around
in the garden
left holding a magic bag.