Seven
I have this massive aesthetic in my garage
eating away at the walls. I ought to tame it,
if I could; maybe. It wants to travel America,
not to say the world. Peeking at things, any
vagrant strain or persuasion, anything lost
or secretly stolen and left out to fade, sadly
or otherwise. Any old skull sunburned, hot
to the touch, like a moon, cool on the dark
face, intimate with all that curls to be made.
Sometimes I get very clear ideas: bayland
completely encalmed, very damp, rained
throughout, weeded, bleak, suffocating.
Timber: uprising. Dawn sun pierced, birdcall
making that sad loop downriver. Shoulders
fatigued by the load I can’t do without. Worn.
I was disoriented about lunchtime today
because the sidewalk was being eroded
with great pain from within. A siskin asked
me for a quarter. The train stalled, wheezing
where it stood: for ten minutes or for one
long hour. The whole time it was about to rain.
I was looking for my way, or any way
out of my little conundrum. All this beauty,
so much of it strange, and only two hands.
