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Saturday, December 14, 2013

RAINING




RAINING


It is raining and I am memory,
I am listening to the moments,
Wearing boots and walking just
To hear the sound of splashes
As it wounds the puddles
With the ashes of warm rooms.

It is raining and I am memory,
Sheets of rooster tails turned
Up by automobiles as they tear
The evening apart with headlights,
The hissing of tires in the rain.

It is raining and I am memory
And you are there beyond all this,
Diamonds on your eyelashes,
Sparkles on your lips, a welter
Of words whispered into my ears.

It is raining and I am memory
Washing the edges of the street in sheets
Of weather, smashing into your
Face, naked as water is naked,
All sound and wind fury,
All language reduced to splatters
On the window glass, all rain all memory
Washing like a heart upon the past.




Thursday, December 12, 2013

BIG HOTEL





BIG HOTEL

Down the Delta, below Courtland.
Before Walnut Grove, there used to be
A large hotel; "Came right up to
The road.", said Fred, trying to recall
Its name.  Burned down, nothing left
To mark it at all.  No one there able
to recall that name.  The river has
Its own intentions, remembers and
forgets at will, rises and falls,
Carries everything downstream,
Trees, boats, bodies, the procession
Of days, to the Bay, then to the ocean.
It too cannot recall the names.  Its
Past is all the land, its character,
Any particular spot along its course
Recalled at random, collectively agreed
Upon as having some things in common
With the flow of conversation.



Monday, December 9, 2013

SOMEHOW THIS DIDN’T SEEM LIKE THE CITY WE LOVED ANYMORE




SOMEHOW THIS DIDN’T SEEM LIKE THE CITY WE LOVED ANYMORE


The night unwound. A brilliant flashing
From the mouth, a moon in the crook
Of its arm. We walk the streets looking
For a warm place. There are lovely rooms
Just beyond the glass. From the street we can
See people smiling and are able to admire
The beauty of their garments. They seem to
Glow in the reflections from the silver and
Crystal. They show each other their bright
Weapons and slide the slim bullets into the chambers.
From here we cannot hear their laughter.

There are dreams sweeter than this one.
At least here I can hold you for a moment, never
Mind the wind. At least here I can trace the shape
Of your mouth with my finger and gaze into your
Face. It is as warm as the den of a fox. I push my nose
Into the hollow at the base of your neck and smell
The summer of you, honey in the wheat fields.

When the police got here we were leaning
On the window sill still looking at the ruckus
On the street. Nowadays no one wonders what
They are up to. Surely someone has done some
Wrong and deserves this kind of treatment. I
Watch shadows push shadows into cars full of circling
Red and blue lights. Someone says “Oh God” and then
Asks God’s mother for help. There are sounds I wouldn’t
Want to repeat in a poem. The street is awash with red
Weeping. The party lights shine on. I hold you
In my arms for the longer moment. We agree
Never to learn the words to these kinds of songs.