Poetry 365

it’s our blood that’s dried up
and crumbles through our fingers
like faded leaves
but there is no fall in here
and summer is standing stock-still
like a white heron in green water

The porchlight coming on again,
Early November, the dead leaves
Raked in piles, the wicker swing
Creaking. Across the lots
A phonograph is playing la-Da.

An orange moon. I see the lives
Of neighbors, mapped and marred
Like all the wars ahead, and R.
Insane, B. with his throat cut,
Fifteen years from now, in Omaha.

I did not know them then.
My airedale scratches at the door.
And I am back from seeing Milton Sills
And Doris Kenyon. Twelve years old.
The porchlight coming on again.

We are a meadow where the bees hum,
mind and body are almost one

as the fire snaps in the stove
and out eyes close,

and mouth to mouth, the covers
pulled over our shoulders,

we drowse as horses drowse afield,
in accord; though the fall cold

surrounds our warm bed, and though
by day we are singular and often lonely.

Every day, a little apocalypse
Lay down, lay down next to this
-David Byrne



The most common cause of death is cars.
The second’s falling trees. We’ve got no idea
which way the trunk is bound to tumble but love
the leaves and bark of upper branches.

What insatiable appetites befall us.

Our son’s buzzed hair is softer than a kit’s
plush hide, a velvety fleece that nearly wiped
the species out when pelts were all the rage.

Want another?

The world doesn’t need out hetero-ro
mance, but I’ve already dammed the stream
and made a good lodge. Let’s cozy up
the yearlings and take our chances.

First the telephone went,
then
the electricity.

It was cold,
and they both went to sleep
as though dressed for a journey.

Like addictions condoned
from above evening
fell, lost

leaves waiting
to come back as leaves—
the long snowy divorce…

That narrow bed, a cross
between an altar
and an operating table. Voice

saying, While I was alive
I loved you.
And I love you now.

The leaves have a sense of
where they fall when they
return to earth

but as they dangle in the wind
like corpses swaying
from a branch

they replace the pure
space of their being
with an act of attention

which passes like
a lullaby through
the eye of the storm.

i wanted to take
your hand and run with you
together toward
ourselves down the street to your street
i wanted to laugh aloud
and skip the notes past
the marquee advertising “women
in love” past the record
shop with “The Spirit
In The Dark” past the smoke shop
past the park and no
parking today signs
past the people watching me in
my blue velvet and i don’t remember
what you wore but only that i didn’t want
anything to be wearing you
i wanted to give
myself to the cyclone that is
your arms
and let you in the eye of my hurricane and know
the calm before

and some fall evening
after the cocktails
and the very expensive and very bad
steak served with day-old baked potatoes
after the second cup of coffee taken
while listening to the rejected
violin player
maybe some fall evening
when the taxis have passed you by
and that light sort of rain
that occasionally falls
in new york begins
you’ll take a thought
and laugh aloud
the notes carrying all the way over
to me and we’ll run again
together
toward each other
yes?

longing to be near her
i remember my shirt
hanging in her closet









the telephone
rings only once
        autunm rain

the heat
you left with me
last night
still smolders
the wind catches
your scent
and refreshes
my senses







i am a leaf
falling from your tree
upon which i was
impaled

I
A history slips through these elms,
presses our mouths together like books.

In October,
you showed me hoof marks,
cupped your ears and listened for gulls.
We are too far off, I told you
you who never listen

II
Wells deep and full of copper draw winter closer still.

III
You fell off your bicycle –
mouth of blood and rot.
Mothers ran, swore low and
kicked all the rust beetles in the road.

IV
A border of blue runs from my house to yours. It trails across the gray grass, the stitched molding, the crack in the door. It enfolds, unravels carpet, romances the cat. We follow it with our eyes closed, arms outstretched and guarded.
V
The room smells of mop water.
Oh turn your back, you say
Oh turn your back

VI
Letters in the trees cull
wild irises and pickle weeds.
I am reading against the bark.

VII
In the kitchen, a curtain is drawn and trees
leave with the east wind.
When the fog comes,
when the town closes its shutters,
spider root sticks to my bowl.

VIII
Forty-paces.

Slowness pulls
at my upturned throat,
the ground shifting urgently
toward the gulls.

I am much too far from the clearing,
much too far from this place of east winds.

IX
In the clearing,
deer move from the thistle,
curiously pressing their noses
against your boots.