What people said, what left the table dark.
None stayed inside the house, nor close around.
Each direction its direction bound.
Like when you leave the arcing thing to arc.
Like papers gather papers in the park.
We note the wind is what can't hold the ground.
While hearing transfer stations fill with sound.
And let the city alter a remark
a little further from explaining what
was meant. A creak again or just a creak
right then. Like leaning forward on the cart.
A structure falls to stay its every strut.
I'd like to speak. I said I'd like to speak.
And someone sighs, they broke the silent part.
Days of Future Dwell
A dance professor around
her white house, which
surfaced with keys, bags,
a listing a broker found
he was proud to sell.
As grass is covered
with grass that’s mown,
why not be happy again
to find your schedule in
your hand, and all things
well. The squirrels leapt
off the branch that fell.
The technical part with
all the pieces lining up,
or already there, at work:
a something to do with
why I pick the tack
from the floor, why I
finger it like a shell. Say
the songs get longer and
the days—all of it—you
can hear it all coming,
if you’ve tied to it a bell.
|About this poem:|
"For a long time, I couldn't understand how people could write in quatrains and still look themselves in the mirror. And now, for some reason, they just feel calm and right."