ALICE HAD ONLY TO WAKE T'was brillig, as I left the Parking Lot, and hot-- The shining steering wheel was like a Curling Iron, the tire on The pavement rolled until it bumped the Yellow Line, all the time my Flesh-tipped Fingers dancing on their frying pan post, for most The thought of Pausing off-handedly by the roadside pales when compared to getting Home-- So I drove There on my fingernails.
WEASEL-BOY'S LAST STAND The chair was empty, starred, and spilled with light-- too obvious a target for the slight boy who had shaken when he had heard "Is this seat taken?" And he filled it--warm, unscarred.
PELICULA I tried to pretend it wasn't a Movie, But that kind of thing is more Raisin-like Than one might Suspect. I tried to pretend it wasn't Spanish, But the best kind of Cows Wear blue-copper bells, And are Black and white-- Jerseys, Is it?-- So, Las Vacas Parade in front of the Cameras, The man with the brown Felt Hat has hangers for shoulders, And I have become The Milkwoman.
LONG, BROWN FRIENDS I know what sidewalks love. They love worms when it's Raining, And the walkers that play Hopscotch To keep from squishing them-- Because they really do love their Worms When it's raining. And they feel very lucky in the Summer when the ants come and Tickle Their surfaces Because sidewalks get Lonely, you know. But their favorites are the Worms Because it's cold, and the walkers don't come out much when it's Raining.
THE EMPTY DICTIONARY BOX I can say I have slept like a Log; Last night--and my little, white Dog Was there with me to Crouch Between my stiffened branches. The Couch Seemed intent on one Goal. As it bowed to my fiberous weight, a Hole Opened slowly beneath us to Swallow Us into its springy depths and Hollow Upholsterédness. Damp dog smell as I'm Sinking And all the while woodenly Thinking-- To a discordant ticking of Clocks-- Of waterbed leaks and that empty dictionary Box.
A STITCH IN TIME every time he strikes the clock my temples ache, ahead of me in line he walks with his novel--blue and read a thousand times, it seems more ancient than a sun dial yet newer than a baby's dreams, in the garden i can hear him for a mile, he shouts the volume loud in the evening air-- i only check my watch and stitch another row my eyes shut tight but my ears open, the pair of them trembling as i guide my needle and so get one thread closer to midnight sitting behind the dreadful, tangled lock on his diary, my once-brown hair feels tight and i continue mending to the steady tick and tock.
FOUR HOURS FOR ALL SOULS (first line courtesy of Wallace Stevens' Disillusionment of Ten O'clock) The houses are haunted, From the moment the hands reach the twelves-- Gossamer Ghosties and grab-apple Goblins All over the kitchens sit swing-legged from counters and shelves. The houses are haunted, When are heard the right number of bongs-- In the dressing rooms thread-bare, sad Beasties Are modeling silk robes and wrap-skirts and trying on thongs. The houses are haunted, When twelve times the pendulums rub-- The washrooms are teeming with hollow-eyed Fishes And white-dusted Crocodiles float and blow bubbles in each pretty porcelain tub. The houses are haunted, But just 'til the tickers tock four-- Then Ghosties and Goblins and Beasties and Fishes And Crocodiles pack up and exit respectably through each unopened front door.
THE MARBLE TOWER (for Annie) She struggled in the Shavings to her knees, But time and toil and effort did not matter-- She'd carve her monument to catch the lofty breeze Though hearty hefts of marble round her legs did Softly shatter. She clutched her chisel in her Delicate grip, And to her sense the marble seemed as Sweet Perfume-- And from her tool and Tiny hand did Slip Great chunks of Powdery marble like a snowstorm in the gloom. And when her high endeavor was complete, And stood as if to beautify and dominate the sky-- It met with an unseasonable summer shower of sleet And as she watched the Water Washed Away her tower of Lye.
THE VOID is a land all in itself... A world the fog prefers, the sunset's favorite haunt... trees wait dreaming along its Winding Way... followed by the Moon in Mist and Will-o'-the-wisps... blue and elusive, flickering through the darkening Trees to Cornfields holding nighttime secrets... whispering what was never put to words and wondering about Great Shadowy Shapes standing silhouetted In the oncoming lights, breathing out great gusts of silvery Air and waiting For the next Traveler to pass.
CLOSING THE DISTANCE As I went singing Along The Void today-- (Two whirring black Wheels And a light Frame Under me)-- Your image ringing In my mind...It may Be stirring--(my back Feels Warmth)--that my sight Came Clear--free... And the great distance Seemed to recede-- Fold Back a bit-- (The breeze runs along My arms)-- The wall withdrew... In one revealing glance You were close enough to need, Hold-- And it Left me--(lone among The little farms)-- With thoughts of you...
THE SPRING OF MY CONTENT Close to four o'clock My eyes came open, And I was aware of my hand On my book, The imprint of the cushion tassle On my cheek, And my warm, clean laundry-- Lying at my feet. He must have layed it there, While I was closed in Sleep. He must have needed the dryer.
SPRING STORM My mind was clouded pleasantly with Sleep When it became aware of him... Deep Within a corner--it was the sad music He Had given me, not he himself, but Me Remembering. And I thought about The Sweater I had held close to me at night, A Sweater he had let me borrow. And How My cold, bare arms could almost feel it Now...
FREEWAY Somebody's white shirt is gray-- and caked with grime-- on the black road Next to the cardboard Box With a hole in it. I love that hole because The box Is smashed and spattered with tire marks-- but inspite of all the Duct tape There is that Hole. That beautiful hole-- just big enough to let Life Out.
WRITING The pen feels good in my hand, And I have taken off my slippers again. My fingers smell of the copper-wire rim of my notebook, And my bare feet feel cold against my bare legs, But I am in the best place. It is a quarter 'til five o'clock. Outside there is sudden snow on the roof, Sparkling on my west window, Drifting down in great flakes from the white Sky. My fingernails are smooth and clean and shiny, My skin has a copper glow. I can feel every muscle in my body--just resting, but there--strong. My head is tilted to one side so that my hair curls softly over my left shoulder. There is nothing like the feeling of one's own hair on one's shoulder. I am writing. My mouth tastes of sleep. My eyes are dreamy. I am writing, and--just now-- There is nothing else I could really do.
HALIBUT That was what we ate The night The chain-link fence went Iradescent In the fading light And you invited Fate To sip summer wine At our table. While the lawn glowed green, Serene Was I, and able To decline.
NEIGHBORHOOD BOUQUET The summer night was Mardigras-- Or it might as well have been. Each face wore a mask, And each displayed a grin. Light spilled from the window That blinked above the garage, And fell upon the flowerbeds-- A fragrant, bright mirage Emerging out of darkness And lush grass to meet her hands. Upstairs the icecream melted as She laughed and brushed stray strands Of golden hair behind her ears. He liked them, those ears. White And small and softly Lit with midnight moonlight. The Noise Garage was left behind, The streets loomed warm and still-- Electric with the silence--and they ducked Among them--stooped under a window sill, A porch light--and came away with tulips, White alyssums, columbine, And daffodils. They crept, They watched, they stopped to dine On honeysuckle and once or twice Were almost caught in an Accusing streetlight. The pavement Echoed as they ran. Three times he almost took her hand-- Her eyes had seemed to ask. The summer night was Mardigras-- But no one wore a mask.
A PAUSE ON CAMPUS (with apologies to Alfred, Lord Tennyson) My knee rests lightly on my literature book... My thoughts swing gently on the September breeze and a title for my latest poem. The evening is falling softly with the sun and my eyes fall to the blue-lined page in my notebook... Should it be "Quiet" or "Silence"? Quiet fits it best, I think. Out of silence comes a strain of airy music and I recognize it-- and I slide from my bench onto my two feet-- and I face north, I think. It starts with a bugle call, forgive me, but it is like "The horns of Elfland faintly blowing" in my startled ears-- and everyone recognizes it-- and everyone stops and stands a little taller-- and everyone faces north. Its "echoes roll from soul to soul", connecting us for a moment... And when the notes have finished and are "dying, dying, dying" in the cooling air The students come to life again, I sink onto my bench and smile Slowly, dreamily. I have forgotten about my title, and am writing another poem.
THE EVENING FALLS It's like the darkness, protective... Is it? No shield to cover soft flesh, Exquisite Eyes, the rise And fall of fear in Greyness. Pressed side-eyed in the shadow-- Dayless-- Footfalls on the stair, in the Hallways, Disappearing Around A corner, Always Silence...hushed fluttering like A Sparrow... Is he drawing back the Arrow? All is moonless, still, the Same. Quiet...is he taking Aim?
26° gloved in black leather my hands grip the handle of the ice scraper like the cold grips me and the darkness of early early morning wraps my white skin like my hands are wrapped gloved in black leather and as the dark, white ice snows and makes white powder on my hands gloved in black leather under the pressure of the scraper i see myself a gray ghost of myself watching myself work from the dark, glassy, innerworld of the window straight faced and spook eyed it is me all right the dark cloud of hair circles my face like my hands gloved in black leather
FRYDAY They sit across from me-- My two friends-- And their faces are so warm, So alive. They sit across from me-- Their conversation tends To make a wall--to perform, Arrive In a shimmering case-- Removed-- And surrounded with Exclusive music. In a shimmering case-- Approved. I'm Jane Doe, John Smith. And too sick Inside as I watch-- With smiling eyes-- To admit that I assented. And I'm prone-- Inside as I watch-- To sympathize While I am empty, dented, Crowded--and alone.
THE IVORY CHILDREN I heard the children laughing And looked back To see a black-eyed, smiling crowd Dressed--not in black-- In freshly ironed white so loud It made a roaring in my ears-- But all the rest was silence. Me, The wrought-iron fence, the frozen ground, The children, and a leafless tree Were all touched by the stillness, the sound That did not flank the gentle wind Around our ankles, the absent shuffle Of the greying leaves around our feet. My eyes detected movement--caught the ruffle In the blinding whiteness of their neat Coats, their pearl buttoned shirts; the quivering Sheen that indicated movement of their vests. I sickened as my wonder fell away in part-- For then I understood the swollen rising of their chests-- The hungry eyes were fastened on my heart.
EVIL ALTITUDE From this height I de-emphasize Doors... In the grey light The apple Cores Dance, and grow Wings On their purple Skins. The crow Sings With empty eyes-- "A pretty kill," I think, Without Reflection--Surreal In streetlight flame. Doubt Collects the dust That Fills the window frame. The anchor drowns the Musk- Rat In the silver sink At dawn. "A clever Kill," rooftops might Sigh, "Wet fur could never Take to Sky." With desert skin I stand-- My Shoulderblades feel new And cold--and I Prepare for flight...
SLEEPING The lake was iradescent In the early light Of moon; Proof of night Was offered silently-- The afterlight of noon Had long subsided To the silver spray Of stars That crowned the bay With summer brilliance. Smooth and dark the Waves became again In the wake of a Disturbance-- No human eye to see The trembling, opal sheen That passed across her eyelids In the green Of the water-- The gentle winds still Rippling on the Surface Did not touch her Coiled hair, now Seaweed wreathed; Her dreams were not Affected by The glint of emerald Scales That might have caught her Eye, had she But breathed.
THE LIVING GAME "To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream." --Sylvia Plath I wake from my Dreams To my Living Nightmare. . . And up through the Seams Comes the Syrup, the sink hair; The pacing a- Round With a Pasted on smile; The mirrors crash Down, And crash With that beautiful style That takes breath away-- Chases Air away-- And leaves the lungs flat. And the porcelain Faces Stay porcelain, Fragile, and matte-- With their pretty mouths Sewn Like the mouths Of bean bags and rag dolls. I cover my ears from the Drone And the Guillotine falls. . .
CHEMISTRY "The first one," he says, "Is for you." But I'm only breathing, And eight nighttimes Seething In darkness, or crying. My cat-light's gone out but The spark press is drying Your eyes-- Never mine-- As it flies Taking streetlights and porchlights And nightlights, So bright lights Can't harm tender skin, Or wide eyes. I am safety and blackpepper gin. And you're nothing but pride In your cucumber silence. Have you tried Super-waiting? It's more than I like, yet I've been here debating With Bluemoon and Roofie and Book-In-My-Hand, But they never felt all the warmth-- Never can. And I know with my pen What I'll do. "The first one," he says, "Is for you."
ELEPHANT THOUGHTS It best reminds me In the afterglow of dusk Of that bustling city-- The rain that finds it must Fall in grey puddles on The nickel street; The light of dawn As cold and void of heat As any winter night. And though I know it's crowded, I always think of twilight There as silent, clouded, Full of only moon, And me--in navy blue-- Sitting all alone With ghosts of you.
VANTAGEPOINT From the porch I watch them easily-- The torch Of streetlight Rests like gold On eyelash tips, and lips fold back in smiles That harbor mysteries. The dust of twilight Blankets trees And covers sound In silence. Shadowed streets In summer glamour Glow with heat As night and secrets Slowly veil my eyes In grey. It's moonrise, And I slip away.
GRILL “Bald as a billiard cue,” She said. But a cue is a long stick, And this man’s head Was round And stretched with flesh. He arranged on the table The plates of fresh Lettuce and morsels Of succulent meat, Dripping in honey-mustard. We paused to eat. And I was trying to be good. Because at home I would have been. And the pink dome Of the waiter’s head returned. And I was trying to be good, And I thought of myself At the cutting board--as I had stood So many times-- Rinsing it over and over in hot Water. But this was not home. There was too much air conditioning, caught Between the polished table And the cut-glass lamp. And the low light was hungry, And my napkin was crumpled and damp.