From the Cave of Questions
Abstraction puts on her cowboy boots. Who else would walk the
boundaries with you and photograph your pears?
The trees drip psychedelia. The sky is stormy. The model is boney.
When a question of intelligence emerges into daylight, she squints.
How dumb am I? Narcotics and light feed her. Folding laundry, she
removes herself. Where have I already been this morning? The sun
splashes on the bed, the mother drowns her children, a man is upset
and has a gun. The world has urgencies. In fact, you’re out of it. It
comes as you lie by the running dam. “Who are you?” It says my
reason, my anti-depressant.
When I get back from New York, France becomes serious. Where
I stand is the blue behind clouds. For the sake of an argument, let’s
say you put your feet up and decide to write. There are no flowers
around. “The key is in the bars in the s in the w.”
The Floating Dots, a Waving Sigh
You called twice sad today. Ah, it is as it is.
Sun on ice on beaver pond under power lines skims unwavering
towards who wants to lie on it, who kneels to it.
The way it teases you goodbye, you know it can kill you. You look
beautiful too when beauty showshoes away.
