1.
In these latitudes of indiscriminate waves that sweater you
knitted for me last winter keeps me warm, even though it is scarcely
summer here. I am speaking of the night: here
it is all about houses and warm hearth fires,
I mean the place is what remains after any important event
as we wend our way home under the interrogation of the stars.
Its loose meanings are
what we come here for, to experience time like the weather -- falling
stars, and once, rain-streaked the face almost mine
in the mirror of
a tidal pool
-- “to renew our lives” -- for fear of being
too something in saying what it means to me to be here --,
but the parts of the world once
assembled can they ever be complete? Can they, can it be?
-- although,
as we know the doorway between the kitchen and
the bedroom is a failed-hallway mixing two spaces,
a simple stanza-break, a failed
hallway or one just coming into being
we easily step through it, or linger as if a word
which hangs relative on the tongue
slow in its awareness of a room waiting to receive it
or shy
it wavers like a soap bubble
not yet born unto the currents of air
redolent of warm bread
and rain
-- But the parts of the world once
assembled can they ever be complete? This pile of
stony rubbish untidy and simple like a threshing floor.
Yes but the waves
born unto the patient anesthetized upon
the table, as she wakes to the remembered
name? As if chance has returned us safely to our moorings. While
from
across the water come distant strains of the master conducting
the Philharmonic in motifs of sleep and articulated
birdsong.
2.
In these latitudes of indiscriminate waves that sweater you
knitted for me last winter keeps me warm, even though it is scarcely
summer here. I am speaking of the night: here
it is all about houses and warm hearth fires,
I mean the place is what remains after any important event
as we wend our way home under the interrogation of the stars.
Its loose meanings are
what we come here for, to experience time like the weather -- falling
stars, and once, rain-streaked the face almost mine
in the mirror of
a tidal pool
-- “to renew our lives” -- for fear of being
too something in saying what it means to me to be here --,
but the parts of the world once
assembled can they ever be complete? Can they, can it be?
-- although,
as we know the doorway between the kitchen and
the bedroom is a failed-hallway mixing two spaces,
a simple stanza-break, a failed
hallway or one just coming into being
we easily step through it, or linger as if a word
which hangs relative on the tongue
slow in its awareness of a room waiting to receive it
or shy
it wavers like a soap bubble
not yet born unto the currents of air
redolent of warm bread
and rain
-- But the parts of the world once
assembled can they ever be complete? This pile of
stony rubbish untidy and simple like a threshing floor.
Yes but the waves
born unto the patient anesthetized upon
the table, as she wakes to the remembered
name? As if chance has returned us safely to our moorings. While
from
across the water come distant strains of the master conducting
the Philharmonic in motifs of sleep and articulated
birdsong.
2.
The waves there was so much to do and to see
she might not have come back
Who knows what the birds thought of the music? that it was a work-
shop or an opera
They meanwhile sang that old standard, We’re in the Gloaming!
The harbor
museum features a submarine disguised as an iceberg
We have been given to understand that it recently received a new
coat of paint
Transfixed was my eye on the whites fading
on the black water
Jeweled necklace makes a catenary upon
the distant shore
she might not have come back
Who knows what the birds thought of the music? that it was a work-
shop or an opera
They meanwhile sang that old standard, We’re in the Gloaming!
The harbor
museum features a submarine disguised as an iceberg
We have been given to understand that it recently received a new
coat of paint
Transfixed was my eye on the whites fading
on the black water
Jeweled necklace makes a catenary upon
the distant shore
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