False spring this year, all brass, centre-of-the-road,
gone with what tempo it came. February, the deceitfully
There were flurries after that, but half-hearted.
No accumulation to speak of, no drifts.
March 18. Middle of the day we saw optimists
in sawed-off trousers shouting the winter over.
They might be right. But then I’ve seen many a false spring,
two to a season. No much more to say than
I’ve seen them.
I keep a piece of stone in my head,
just behind my eyes. It is magnetic
and points me home.
If you ask me “where is home?”
I will say “ask the stone.”
I am not a map.
Sometimes I come to a body of water.
I build a boat. Is this not why
anyone builds boats?
The boat sinks. I build another.
I drink the water and die of thirst.
I build another.
If you say to me “tell me your story.”
I will tell you the story of the stone.
I am not an author.
If you say to me “I am your home.”
I will say nothing, but start
plummets (scuttled) cloudward
its choice we undertone
understandable we mutter
such humdrum business here
our vast concretes
we who navigate by torchlight cigarettes
who guzzle uncountable cakes
its chosen sky Jesus
its sensible harp sweeps
not these thunderheaded alleyways
not these lightningous fingers
frangible earth wails
shoehorned child wails
A man walks down a street
but only the street exists:
You can visit it if you like.
He walks through an arch
slung over his back.
Only the arch exists, barely,
a sad little thing, a facsimile.
He leans out over the water
and the water does not exist.
In its place is another water.
He takes a picture of a reflection.
Only the picture exists:
The reflection has washed out
to the other reflections.
A different man holds the photo.
I would like to meet him,
with your jaw i have
slain a hundred men
the book that should not have been opened
says what if the book had not been opened
smooth teeth you
have eaten the world
i would rewrite you
witless vile scared vain thing
who knows your address
double-windowed red little door
who tucks maps in pockets
for later for never
who bellows vanity into
i would rewrite you
until you are the essential me
the invisible me
who is never and is not
For a while I could see it:
a door in the sky
Who works very hard not to see
Past the fence past the buildings
Past the road to the plain beyond
Who works very hard to keep from
Chewing its lip from grinding its teeth
From obsessing about stamps
Who is obviously not a horse
Who wears a tie who eats sushi at lunch
Who knows the words who must shout
Who works very hard not to stare at
This speaking in tongues streetside
Who thinks the city is too full
pressed up againt the bars
hoarder of newspaper
until that other bird
that 2/5 of a 1/3 frame