Closing the Book
I am done writing.
I have retired the pen.
I have buried my little
coffin of a composition book.
I have gathered broken sonnets
and recycled sestinas
and heaped them into a small pyre
into which I’ll also throw
my book project, my love letters,
and the epic poem I’ve been writing
on the people of the Ibo islands.
Don’t worry about the little
black children collecting shells
in the secret Carolinas.
They’re used to being forgotten.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
May 22, 2009
A Presidential Moment
He was here, you know?
Among the trees and benches
A day like today.
I didn’t see him, no,
but I saw the suits.
I saw the traffic.
I saw the flashing lights.
I heard the held the
crowd like a cup.
He sipped slowly
and let the stem rise,
and I, with nothing to drink
and thirsty for a whole country,
waited at the door.
He was here, you know?
Among the trees and benches
A day like today.
I didn’t see him, no,
but I saw the suits.
I saw the traffic.
I saw the flashing lights.
I heard the held the
crowd like a cup.
He sipped slowly
and let the stem rise,
and I, with nothing to drink
and thirsty for a whole country,
waited at the door.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
May 21, 2009
You collect them,
their eyes and their teeth,
their births and bar mitzvahs
Thier pulling on and taking off
of pants and aprons,
their children and their children's soft songs.
their bombs and their bones
their baked goods
all neatly ordered in their
oaken kitchen cabinets.
You collect thier flags
their heirlooms
their watches
and their time
their pens and the ink that spilled
their oratory and the ink still hiding.
You collect them as we collect you
your rumpled skin and chicken-scratch caography
And we, you and I, exist like some Escher painting
two outstretched hands trying to file one another away.
their eyes and their teeth,
their births and bar mitzvahs
Thier pulling on and taking off
of pants and aprons,
their children and their children's soft songs.
their bombs and their bones
their baked goods
all neatly ordered in their
oaken kitchen cabinets.
You collect thier flags
their heirlooms
their watches
and their time
their pens and the ink that spilled
their oratory and the ink still hiding.
You collect them as we collect you
your rumpled skin and chicken-scratch caography
And we, you and I, exist like some Escher painting
two outstretched hands trying to file one another away.
May 20, 2009
I'll hold this night
in the crux of my neck,
in the arch of my back,
on the shelf of my shoulders.
I'll hold this night
in the sleeves of my eyes,
in the shells of my nails,
in the little toolbox of my ears.
I'll hold this night
like i'll hold my tongue,
like I'll hold my breath,
like I'll hold your hand,
still
not holding mine.
in the crux of my neck,
in the arch of my back,
on the shelf of my shoulders.
I'll hold this night
in the sleeves of my eyes,
in the shells of my nails,
in the little toolbox of my ears.
I'll hold this night
like i'll hold my tongue,
like I'll hold my breath,
like I'll hold your hand,
still
not holding mine.
May 19, 2009
On writing four drafts of a letter I did not send
I'm sorry,
and there it is,
no more and no less.
The leafless tree,
the grpeless vine,
the shelled acorn
and its little pumpkin soul.
I'm sorry,
and we are all sorry,
a misty-eyed patch
of harvest ready pumpkins
bare and apologetic.
I'm sorry,
and there it is,
no more and no less.
The leafless tree,
the grpeless vine,
the shelled acorn
and its little pumpkin soul.
I'm sorry,
and we are all sorry,
a misty-eyed patch
of harvest ready pumpkins
bare and apologetic.
May 18, 2009
Am I not still
a prophet of Bael?
Still licking my skin
with sharp stone?
Still waiting on my salamandrine god.
a prophet of Bael?
Still licking my skin
with sharp stone?
Still waiting on my salamandrine god.
Monday, October 19, 2009
May 17, 2009
On the quilted first floor
of the Dabbs Hotel,
there are trains that
no longer run and
passengers who watch
their luggage gather
sheets of unstirred dust.
On the quilted first floor
of the Dabbs Hotel,
there are empty ballrooms
full of gossamer gowns
that hang like once happy women.
On the quilted first floor
of the Dabbs Hotel,
there are doors that lead
to guns and gold
and wide trunked trees
whose rotten fruit are not grown.
On the quilted first floor
of the Dabbs Hotel,
balanced between
the river and the rail,
there is a story and a crime
and a girl with no eyes,
a song and a spade
and an unmarked grave
and a man with no tongue
who's afraid of the sun
and so plays the piano each night.
of the Dabbs Hotel,
there are trains that
no longer run and
passengers who watch
their luggage gather
sheets of unstirred dust.
On the quilted first floor
of the Dabbs Hotel,
there are empty ballrooms
full of gossamer gowns
that hang like once happy women.
On the quilted first floor
of the Dabbs Hotel,
there are doors that lead
to guns and gold
and wide trunked trees
whose rotten fruit are not grown.
On the quilted first floor
of the Dabbs Hotel,
balanced between
the river and the rail,
there is a story and a crime
and a girl with no eyes,
a song and a spade
and an unmarked grave
and a man with no tongue
who's afraid of the sun
and so plays the piano each night.
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