Tuesday, November 27, 2012

driving from there to there there were

driving from there to there there were

shadows on the castle,  my splinterless foot-- holed
pressed on the pedal   light dripped 
down the dreamcatch feather 
hanging, the rectangle mirror watching 
my back-- no!-- gaping: fool, trickster 
(the objects closer than they appear    the objects 
in the blind spots):   
                            but how low, how beautiful still the light 
dripped down the feather's blue   its blue fading
as blue will 
fade from creatures put in drawers
full of paper   spare screws   time 

                                                   before the feather   I was pulling apart 
                                                   a piece of cotton    warming oil, filling
                                                    a woman's ear full 
                                                   with sweet then filling
                                                   her ear with cotton like burial   
                                                   who's there she asked my moving lips  

                                                                                                      tell her 
tell her

I am singing who I am
                                               singing high to reach the jar on the high shelf 
                                               inside a Morphos flitting blue against glass    

and then I am calling
where are you    the woman
her ear full of cotton 
needles in    answers here
her silver goes digging 
in skin in time
my throat curls 
on itself--
like sign language 
fingers who make
the letter e

someone should tell the story--

                              the story which came before 
tweezing the sliver   the story before 
Morphos heaves in the jar

the story for which 
the splinter is the relic to hold 
at times  the story   which can not be forgotten

Thursday, November 8, 2012

Octopuses are no more a metaphor

For half a second I had 8 arms for
half a second I was moving
all the plates on the table, setting
forks, arranging
salad spoons glasses all at once

In Greece the octopuses hang
on fences to dry   already
not too much
not too little
but a Goldilocks amount
of beaten so they
are not too tough
not too tender
but just the right amount
of beaten
and they are no more
a metaphor than anything else
I have seen today