afternoon is gravid with cloud and I feel the
swell of my knuckles in a damp room. It is Sunday
again. I wonder how the wheel can spin so fast,
and if I tried to slow it, whether the tread would
bite my finger. Of course, the chore would be
to set the sprocket to its proper speed in the
morning, the blue in the office deepening practically
into twilight. Who ever invented those banks of
fluorescent ice, the linoleum shore?
speaking of the belly of the air, my best friends
are with child. I'm happy for them, but it is
a book closing. The new one I'm reading seems
terribly dull, the characters live in the city
and work downtown. Where is the sea and the waves
curling over pockets of darkness? Oh well, even
poetry grows up. Put it away.
is not to say I dislike the cast of light in my
room. It is almost content, that gray, to mingle
with the yellow of the lamp. They are friends
from different times, different towns, come to
drink beer in my living room. It will be so festive
until they both go home. I am a continent spreading
out, touching at least two shores, my heartland
rustling with corn.
I do wonder, why is time like an accordion, making
its most somber noise on its inward fold? It would
probably be better for us if the seasons ran a
straight line, summer and fall, winter and spring,
and on to something new. It's hard to go around
once a year, and my teeth ache. They have memories
of tinfoil stuck to the bottoms of cakes.
babies will come and babies grow. I'll pick out
my clothes and turn off the light and listen to
my neighbor's tv. A doctor is rushing through
a hallway to save a young man's life, the whirl
of lights above his head. How lovely, a nurse
will say, looking at her reflection in the empty
computer screen, but of course she means the music
that suddenly fills the room.