Dear Beings, I Can Feel Your Hands
Small voice of my father saying
little piece of dirt facing
small boat harbor—
On Tuesday, meteor
and then on
Thursday, riptides. Spouting
Horn—What am I? To be
the mast of such great admiral—
Sit down. Dear beings, I am afraid
I have lost my ruthlessness and cunning
along with a bay horse and turtledove. There
are flowers stuck to the ceiling. Seriously.
What have I near the water? My family
moves around me. I have decided
nothing (scares me). I look out across the water
and a spindly black spider
turns out to be a tide crab. Little sister
saying that’s a moth’s wing—up close
Set waves, tide
more like a feeling—my mother saying look
at how many people died while we were away—
Thin series of blurs
like I was never there at all
Like the other day I heard a woman
talking to her friend at the bar I feel
like I’m not good enough. I’ll never make money
again, never fall in love. I don’t know
where to go when the doors close—
I can’t just go out and buy a wheat-colored soul
write a sadder poem—startled
by windows curved up in the shape of
fins. Up and behind my head
the shadows on the table spin
for us. We are in love—if I could
spend my life beneath palm fronds
into which walk little birds and saunterers
Clouds wrapped around iceplants if I could only
find one of the letters to God
in the street—I am still new to town
The kids on the lawn go around
the light. I don’t get it. The first word
I hear on my birthday
is windowbox—charming of treetops
and songs on the radio
calm me down. Disarmed
but hopeful—thank you
I look up and
cathedral,
spotlight
not having to
imagine beautiful rooftops
—I find myself in that
§
And the feeling of girls laughing downstairs—
lucky enough just to scan the flights of birds
stand under bleachers in the snow
blurting out kisses—like a man
the cards kept urging forward
the world so rare it ripples
in the photos I develop, I tell the clerk go somewhere
and make yourself happy. All the lights in the ceiling
say flood. Make me happy—feeling of. I say
a feeling left of
windblown. I want to live
in a world where rooftop tennis courts
covered in confectioners snow stadium lights
on all the south-facing windows—world where
gates ajar rend my prayer
where
wren—
Blackout
Night over asphalt—passages in the snow—night over asphalt
just wanted to be a host—a place for brightness to pass over
a million different animals all crashing into a kitchen and breaking
nothing—keep thinking: God moves to the ends of our prepositions
like an open shirt—suddenly it’s all leaky doors and thunderstorms
like forgetting something—it’s all green—and then a blackout
everyone in streets
§
the wind that hit
those grasses
was an animal. I mean you
can see it
but only in patches. Only
by the yellow light
its teeth flashes off
I was driving downtown
when what I thought
was chandeliers
was sky actually
teethed on two sides
by exposure to buildings and trees
a new kind of world—its name
I believe you and it really is glorious—really
something else
Not the real but stuck to it
Not full, shot through with
light—if I ever stop thinking
this is a wilderness
pepsi can forest
in the tall rusty bushes
growing through steel dark
bleachers, echo of
somebody else’s for-rent
whisper on the phone—if I ever
wanted to be this carousel
of night sounds—all I can think of
I want to be an extra pair
of movie-set lights
I was standing in flowers
inverted by bell shapes
and suddenly everything’s done
so forwardly—