Here is where to keep
a white sky between six and seven.
Here is the place to store
the special parts and quiet pieces.

Crossing

For a week the blood
smear as deer had
dragged herself
on broken legs to a side
of the road and lay there
like a hand swipes
a frozen window.

There she watched the last cars
and shooting stars, took a final hit
off the moon where no Injuns
ever stood either and she promised.


Praiseworthy Appearance

On Friday night
the fox speeds up
to make it -
away from the town
full of light and actions.
The way he smooths on by -
a little train of feet, film
made of fur and tail
in one brilliant line.
Left to right as if
a switch lifted and the chute
opened through which
he aimed and shot.

Not My Share

We slip into the parody
of nations, ball parks in back
streets easy to the strip
tease, all blank tomorrows
between the river Jordan's
shoulder and fake smile
strangled in the birth
canal with umbilical cord.
The stick bugs of Pharaoh
in vast directions of flight
become a pre-emption
of parable in haute
twisting, haute history,
haute foreign policy -
all so haute in a beautiful
dying, a better wicked
and unhinged, stewards
of linearity. A voice
erupts into the norm psychosis,
a blatant not so obvious
flow of pingpong glamour -
a steadfast parade of boredom.

The Way Back

Each day the line opens
into voices complains
a secrecy imagined by hemispheres
between contingencies.
The last time our mountain
rose up between various histories,
a road and nod between
interested parties, the way
the sun held our attention
before dark, this little bit
more it gives is breathtaking.
No one remembers anymore
us there in the shadow,
nobody can recall our faces
relaxed and grown weary
is a place intended
for laughter, for glances.

The Obviate

The problem is, as one might guess
that there are no more questions
to ask, no more fights to pick.
There is so much more waiting
to do and although it is pleasant
to realize that realization
is better late than never or early,
it is still saturated with our agony.
One of the finer features happens
to be the anticipation of astonishment,
the first few flinches to the monumental
throes of horror and gasping,
those of the siblings and left hand
being the hardest to hear and worst
to contemplate now. Should we have
tried harder to dislodge insolence,
forced them to see the difference
between the accidental right
and this pitiable no nonsense certitude?
Would it have mattered at all
to inform them of our own
perserverent sadness caused by
their lukewarm guesses
as they ignored our pleas,
the truth that lurked behind
their gazes? How many sins
sped between handshakes and gum?
Which day might have been the right one?