�����
Among
the poorer possibilities:
�����������������������������
�Hum.�
Are
you fucking crazy, Tulip?
�����������������������������
Know what they would do to us?
In
the garden of all that is and is
�����������������������������
it is almost too much so so much
for
the cattail dream and the banks��
�����������������������������
where we dried like drowned children in sun
and
there were finally flies remarking sadly
�����������������������������
and for once remarkable fires in
our mouths.
The
soul and then the backsling? Happy harps,
give
me no more lady, no more moth that mothers����
����
blackbirds
on fire in the hickories and ghosts that won�t be tethered
to
the (hell with) you and the high tide you rode in on.
When
you were the wind
�����������������������
������beating
apart apples and
the
sky was your eye
�����������������
(OF)
����� All
things to happen
�����������������
in a hotel bathroom
����� sunlight
lightly tapping
�����������������������������
(SINCE)
�����������������
I�ve been driving days
������ ���
��������������������into
night�s corral, it seems
�����������������
only the landscape changes
����������������������������������������
(NOW)
Wash
my face my elm ash what�s that.
Companion
a sky does to and does.
I
live my fiction: mornings when nothing matters:
�����������������
vespers and missives and
desperate miles in the dusk.
The
heart guns and guns. � I
stumbled into being,
I
might as well stumble through it.
