The Bird Life
You want to know how narrow,
where the ocean is hidden
over the rise, beyond
residential where the gulls live
the bird life. Hovers. Cream.
Going against his wishes. She's
glad he's knowable. Not to visualize
the body missing or not whole,
that body she loved.
Not allowed to comment on memories
believing doesn't change desire.
Yaw, pitch and roll.
In handing down, the handing,
brown hands, smell of soil
a clean smell. Only the colander
pricked out in little stars,
such a tiny moon.
The Why Question
The why question is never satisfactorily answered. It's a lyric story
grounded. Women stay home to listen; repeated, the story grows beyond
its allotment. A bone spur. Old age in a cold castle, the carpet unraveling.
the little god
inside the little god
an attention that could be listening
hope in hope out, acceptance
or something not that simple
presently at rest
I can't remember their names right now because of the singing.
The small ones where the heart and lungs are. Argue heart
as sentimental; breath is the historical context. The small clay figures
are located in the thoracic cavity, dressed festively(ceremonially, formally.)
We think memory is a place like a museum. We think like Romans.
It's hard to tell what we're waiting for.
Fearing closure, the lovers become two people
who are trying to survive:
one with a coffin, one carrying a sack.
The sweetness of the notes falls on dead air.
There is rhythm because of my walking
on the leaves, reminiscent of Kurosawa's
girl and robber. Such beautiful youngsters,
needing a little shrine and a bowl of roses.