Ears to Hear

.




the dry oleander
humps to the eaves and
just past
the green corn
is not as tall as it will be.
it won’t
mask the white face from you
that,
look through the window,
tilts back and away against
the body of the damp corn.
look for
a curve of lips in the silk
or two pale mitts on the haft,
or another white face
with a puddle of blue wool
where the stalk meets the earth.






.

Sleeper

you would have despised november
this year,
it was so cold,
and clotted the blue oaks
on the edge of the hill.
now december too
will end—-
frigid dream of dark—-
without ever having woken
your small brown body
and the two hands hanging
off the edge of the bed
like jerky.

Adam

all the while

I hear the nakedness of the first man

his teeth against the flesh

and the snake against his leg,

his hands that have been

as many places and been there too

for a thousand years or however long.

I’ve yet to discover if I can make a mistake

differently.

Objective

I hear you crying in bed.
morning soon
will rub the window
and spread out the ragged stains.
then your salt-crumbed face
will be embarrassing to see—I’ll put on the kettle
to clear the air,
and read in the kitchen
until the water is cool.

Expatriate

last night in a salty purl of fog

I stood by the café by the bank

and smelled

the magnolias

by the reservoir.

a pimple of water

stood on the table

to recall the demitasse.

those hours passed

and the fog sucked slowly

down the blue bank.

the river fell out to the sea,

and a puddle in the fog

held the prints of my shoes

until morning.

Two Vagrant Coyotes

talking once,

we glid by the reservoir—and two coyotes

pittered by with wide, competent eyes,

then sunk into the caliginous firs

like sugar in a vat of joe.

we grew close in darkness,

that’s why I hated your service in the D street Episcopal—

which all and every remember with great fondness

because the day was bright as hell,

and the photographs poxing the bulletin board

showed you polishing that soda-fountain grin

at ten, eighteen, and twenty-five.

the grin was a fib, I know,

because the man I knew

was voluptuous, scrappy,

and manly as hell,

nothing like the withered invertebrate I kissed

in the toothpaste-scent of the ICU,

you who all your life

reeked of cattle and rum.

I hate the nurse and mortician.

I should have done all their jobs.

swabbed myself

the grass stains from your knees

and sculptured with sweet-scented tonic your

final rambunctious hairs,

buried you when I wanted

and no moment earlier.

Embla's Daughter

the song wore down—the torches’ querulous pits

slumped into acquiescence.

the radio sputtered—

a movement began—

the doorway resolved the dark canker of your body

advancing with bulldog conviction

upon my unwary bivouac,

the questing snout and red jowls descending

and dispatching the feeble sentry

whose dagger merely ceremonial,

lacks the keenness to render warning persuasive.

to what resilience, what

barred, impregnable fastness

may I retreat

when you oyster me open,

and cleave

the innermost flesh?

I have tried to forget

the black chimney

of your single eye,

but there has been intervention

neither of time or love

enough.

I sit, I serve tea to friends

and they jest

of love and their wilted husbands.

I don’t talk

of your thick hot hand

your spit on my nose

and my old volkswagen thighs.