Impatient

In memory of
all I've forgotten,
I swim through
the dark like

a half-demented
hitchhiker. A century
comforts its seasons,
each of which had

hoped to be the
reason life goes on.
Impatient rhymes
wait at the end

of each line,
trembling in anticipation.

West

A white parrot,
it is said, sleeps
in the color blue
and dreams the

wet dream of
a nearby lake.
This cannot be
confirmed, only

said.  That being
said, let us move
west to where
the wilderness is

and, lying down
in it, die.

Asleep

At the bottom
of the mirror's
pond a memory
sleeps in deep

liquid.  Looking
up, it sees itself
rising to the surface,
only to sink again.

It thinks it's a
ping pong ball
that's a pebble.
It senses that it

ought to remember
what it's unaware of.

The Parade Grounds

Love leads each
of us to the parade
grounds by a
different route.

One guy, for
instance, has a
toothpick in his
mouth, while another

appears not to be
concerned about anything.
My chance came
when she arrived

unexpectedly in a
dress she wasn't wearing.

Your Turn

Almost anything
is something a
poem can start
out with if the

poet wants it
to.  The poet is,
after all, in charge.
You would do

well to remember
that as you
open the book
and start reading.

Okay.  Now it's
your turn.

Scattered

Now that there are
more poets than
there are readers
of poetry, let the

book burning begin.
Franz Wright is
essentially right
about being wrong.

A poet's frown becomes
a reader's easy excuse
for going insane.  A
tree standing on

tiptoe scatters
the dawn.

Words

Time forces a smile
on each of us as we
await the embarrassing
click of the shutter.

I was as strong then
as I am wrong now.
I am older, yes, but
still bereft of wisdom's

comforting counsel.  I
juggle words I will
never have the good
sense to use in a

sentence that says
what I mean.

Going

Many ingenious
lovely things
are gone, replaced
by less lovely,

even more
ingenious things.
The sound of
life going

on in the next
room reminds
me of the
noise the air

makes turning
into wind.

Trapped

Trapped inside a silence
he had agreed to years
earlier, he pretended
not to notice the

lovely young women
in white.  He didn't
mention to himself
how wonderful they

were, how the slightest
movement of their
bodies suggested
a symphony no

composer had had the
courage to compose.

Yellow

A woman in gray,
whose son is in
Mexico City but
can't imagine

why, sits on her
veranda and sips
iced tea through
a straw.  A slice

of lemon floating
in the glass of
iced tea insists
on appearing

yellow to anyone
who looks at it.

At The Window

Wisdom's widow,
dressed in darkness,
stands at the
window, looking

down on what
she can no
longer see.
Men selling

hats swat
flies, flying
off the handle
at the mere

 mention of
a dropped hat.

As Planned

Dressed in pink,
she falls into
the well of his
eyes and enters

a dream about
starting over at
the beginning.
The dream is

filled with flowers
that have difficulty
smelling as sweet
as they need to

in order for everything
to turn out as planned.

Patterns

Hell is probably just
a less than totally
satisfactory heaven
in which some of

the fruit is a little
overripe.  Bookkeepers
can be heard bouncing
off the walls in an

imaginary recording
whose colors run
down the broad
side of a barn in

predictably unpredictable
patterns.

A bird

At noon, of
course, every
light bulb goes
blind.  Lanterns

lean against a
fond memory of
night.  Shade
shivers darkly in

its skin.  A fountain,
lifting up its arms
in prayer, babbles
as if it were a

brook.  A bird
postpones its flight.

Tentatively

Having been informed
by mail that I had
inherited the
kingdom of heaven,

I briefly considered
moving there with
my dog and some
of my furniture.

The rest I would
have sold had I
decided ultimately
to make the move.

As it is, I am
tentatively happy here.

Ago

They are too young
to remember when
people died delighted
with how long they

had been required to
wait.  In those days no
one had to demand that
the slack be taken up.

It was taken up more or
less automatically (more
more than less, even though
there was still the nagging

problem of too many
dreams per square inch).
 

Parked

I can understand
how my insistence
on coming to pick
you up for our

date in a parked
car might annoy
you.  But the
parked car is the

only car I own.
It is parked where
I left it when
it ran out of

gas one night and
refused to go on.

Grandfather

My grandfather had
a fear of being
buried upside down
and not being able

to see the sky.
It was an irrational
fear (as most fears
are).  To placate

him, we bought him
a casket with a window,
through which we
could clearly see

him staring up at us
through his eyelids.

Adam

Having determined'
that a perfect
name for each
thing existed

only in theory,
he gave each
thing an alias
and an alibi.

A "tree" wasn't
a tree, but could
pass for one
in a pinch.  A

"man" pointing at it
could say "that tree".

Permanently

It took an entire
crew of angels
to resurrect her
body and reattach

it to what was left
of her soul.  When
she began fading
into the background

of the memories
of those who had
known her, a
chair was brought

in for her to sit
on, permanently.

In English

It's hard to figure 
out sometimes what
hobbies the girls
are likely to have,

what degree of heed
they pay to whatever
they pay heed to.
What seems at

least partially legible
is the interest they
show in interesting
things while at the

same time thinking about
themselves in English.

Waiting

What had seemed
a mere mention
of itself in passing
became the gospel

according to John.
Tulips yawned and
cracked open like
walnuts.  Time's

cup overflowed,
not with joy, but
with even more
waiting.  Inertia

seemed content in the
chair it was sitting in.

Joseph Of Cupertino

The word "tall"
is a short word,
shorter than the
word "short",

though not quite
as short as
the word "all".
The word "levitate"

describes an action
that is unable to
occur outside the
imaginations of

Joseph of Cupertino
and his followers.

Pauses

Time is a garden
in which memories
grow until they've
become large enough

to be afterthoughts
dressed in pink.
My cousin is
the gardener.

Like most gardeners,
he is unreliable.
He allows time
to bribe him

with brief pauses
that never end.

At The Present Time

I often imagine
you trying to write
the poems I write,
but not being

able to because
you are not me.
This problem you
have of not being

able to be me
is, I am told by
people who
say they know,

unsolvable
at the the present time.

Herbst

Gulls, too far
inland, seem
to object to
the way I write

as I cautiously
walk out of one
way of behaving
into a treeless

field.  Lord, the
summer was so
grand.  Let the
wind blow freely

through the land.
It's time.

Termites

An orchard my
memories liked
to hide in was
torn down in

the fifties to
make room for
post-war housing.
Some of my fondest

memories ended
up in the rafters
of three-bedroom
homes.  I like to think

of them as termites
eating into the wood.

Hereafter

Out in the dew-coated
garden a tulip
parts its lips
in anticipation

of a promiscuous
sun.  Noon
nods its head
in agreement.

Everything that can
goes smoothly, running
every stop
sign between

here and what's
left of hereafter.

Every Yesterday

I spend most
of my days
waiting for a
letter that was

never sent.
Knowing it was
never sent
relaxes me,

allows me to
reach evening
without a hitch.
It's a letter I

address to myself
every yesterday.