2/30

A little Robin, a little Emerald Tablet, a little Hondo

I look up. I think incandescently 

about my sister’s night sky app

that clarified the constellations 

from that dark corner in Texas

April night gathered outside 

                  here a true explanation

                  concerning which there 

                  can be no doubt:

as above, so below 

the secret humming beneath the secret 

I look up. I think who grouped them 

where they lay who drew ram, lion, 

water bearer come to bring needed nectar 

thirsty thirsty as we’ve been    are     who 

stole a world from us, corralling stars

                  to make the miracle 

of the one thing 

look up

talk about it (27)

talk about it, the splendor

Never the language always the rhythm.

Always the beat, the song, the blood’s pulse,

the finger running, thrumming, toe knock knock

knocking against the seat in front, would

you stop, would you just stop. Ever

the nodding, catching the tune, sipping

the melody out of the jazz, sucking

the jazz out of the lyric, hearing

the joke in the shift in the lilt, ready

to laugh at it, ready to cry about it, hard,

heavy sobs, breath lost, sob muscles

essing the body. Never the words, or hardly

ever the words, because here come the waves,

the mountains, here the view of the bounce,

green in all directions and dun and pearl

and undulating marble mounding, squeezing

that space inside, mounting and

again then pushing it out, out, heaving,

hefting, helling, heavening. Again.

11th: Happy Anniversary

** disappeared **

Poem drawn from the "fellows followed" list on my blog at 10:20 pm 10 April

I sense you understand me perfectly.

                       (Language drawn largely from
                         the "fellows followed" list
                         on my blog at 10:20 pm 10 April)

The traffic on First is careful tonight,

earnest, gray. Birds, pianos and the moon

our self-portrait. The sheriff rides in

to arrest the weather, fat snowball

competing with her favorite tumbleweed.

For the excellent career in roustaboutery,

broken bowls, winter blooms, acerb

whistles over interference.

It’s all interference,

pulsing handbrakes,

ridiculous.