Jogging Through a Cemetery

Do you recognize the turn of the  morning
I don’t
It’s like the translucent grey handle
At the top of the poem
I just now noticed

I can see through it
Push down on it to write
An image of the window’s sky
Will appear to be sponsored
As this moment

Appears to be sponsored

As you appear to be ashes

By your name

That strange tethered animal

“Meaner than a junkyard dog”

 

 

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Just

See how easy it is          to be an artist
be as many-seeded        as a pomegranate
a morning

Is it hard to be a morning?
I think it is           the clouds are cold
They are unheard-of shades of pink

You must go down narrow stairways
They are stone       that happens to you

The trees     reach across the stairways
which go           from high to low

which is, surprisingly, progress

 

 

 

Aboil, Jane

Your morning comes
as a burnt rag
thrown over the sea foam
that smells, frankly,
of sperm
and tomorrow
and to matter and tomorrow
stand balanced stones
on the spit of ocean’s edge,
where you’re the wedge,
host of barrowed wave-scroll,
hackled bone and hunger cough
of gull. Know everything
on its fast little rat’s feet
left in the wet sand’s
existential etch-a-sketch
just before all rats scream,
fly angrily into each other’s
hopeless filthy bosoms,
in the loudest direction.

Halfway Through a Keyhole

The smallness of a hand
enter you. Should be a lock
on the dawn. The rabbit bent
under the moon like a knuckle
in your mind. Good morning,
three a.m.  Frost on leaves,
who knew you could embroider
diamonds?  Rare headlights
seen on the small mountain
across, no different than
airport lights, but going
down, down:
a late drinker
or early worker.
Dark imagination
will have to split
the difference.

My Cave Embarrassment

I like to be born and I like to bloviate.
Yadda yadda. There is a cave
with a tiny Plato inside it.
And I go there every day. I find the dark
subterranean roses. And I bathe them.
I use the old tub I was born in.
It is battered and makes a horrible sound
when I drag it across the cave floor.
My cave’s neighbors think that is me
clearing my throat every morning. What a nightmare!
But it is impossible to explain. So the neighbors
in the next cave own my heart unlawfully.

The Warning

The end of night
just lies there
in wait for the dawn,

at the base of trees,
in pools at the bottom
of steep streets.

“Don’t fall for it!
It’s a trap!”
I want to yell

in warning
to the sun, as though
he could hear me,

as though this,
as though we,
were a bad movie,

and only that.
Because bad movies
are the only place

those things ever work.