(written in Feb. 2009 on a couch in North Carolina. re-edited right now
a few minutes before midnight.)
JANINE
Here,
a world saturated with good and evil
that old ideas press under an anvil,
the wings fall off backs.
Like ceiling fans whose bolts have melted,
whats left but department store-Icaruses?
when the wings fall off backs
we have no choice but crash, right?
We now envy the privilege of birds
and the curse of butterflies.
The air stagnating is heavy now,
here
under the stars.
I try to make them seem closer
stare at them when they want to appear
draw them near
on a page that only knows
the limits of ink and paper.
World, let yourself be described!
The mating season reminds me
that maybe two is a magic number.
Another one. And another.
Hey! Shipless captain,
somewhere floats a paramour
and when you hit the shore
soon Spring’ll leave the remains to rot
for good,
at least until next year.
The mating season behind the window
in the garden. Even for the racoons
maybe for the possums
and on the other side, mine,
the fusty smell,
the darkness and the mess
and the books.
Published perfections
all lined up on the shelves.
My thoughts be heaved on the back of a wave
sent flying like a carrier pigeon
from the back of this chair
-crazy sails of my boat-
to moments as sweet as they're remote:
A girl whose hair was wet,
leaning against the concrete line,
in the smell of chlorine,
beautiful curious lips.
The shouts and the music
and our young legs…borne higher
for only anchor, my fingers
wrinkled by the water.
World, let yourself be described!
It's too lonely down here without beauty.
