September 27, 2006
The Nearest Simile Is Respiration
a poem.
via Poetry Daily
The Nearest Simile Is Respiration
To poetry
I was boozed I was doped I was maybe
a floozy before you knew me, loose
leafed like autumn and most of the books
of the Old Testament that fell out
of my father's Bible. I had a body.
I had a habit of hauling my telescope
into the outskirts, ransacking all
the toothsome blackness for what: a reason
not to do me in. Proof I was more
than the seasonal ragbag detritus
choking the rooftop gutters, more
than a piece of the cosmic dust
in some ruined philosophy.
I could not be consoled by the universal
Sisyphus in us all, the dung beetle
nuzzling its putrid globe.
I could not hitch my wagon. The stars
and stars abrade my notions of my Self;
tricuspid Eros chewed me raw; Jesus
Christ rubbed mud in my eyes, and I saw
not. I did not see.
But with you! my sweetheart hairshirt,
my syntactic gondolier, ruffian for hire, befoolable
irresolute Chanticleer: with you, I back-float
the massy and heretofore unnavigable childhood
algal blooms, where no fish swam. No fish
have swum that Mississippi.
With you, I forgive my father's notes
to NASA, the self-inflicted swastika tattoo,
my sister's coked-up juggernaut cannonball
into the afterlife.
I forgive the afterlife,
resurrect John Lennon and the jukebox
at the Quik 'N' Hot, infect myself
with a rare strain of tarantism. With you, I dance
the summum bonum. With you, I am greater
than or equal to the lack, and luck is weather
that permits my red begonias.
Ashley Capps
Mistaking the Sea for Green Fields
The University of Akron Press
I heard the poem in my head as if it were rolling free-form from the lips of a street rapper, ad-libbing, trying to hit the big time and hoping for a taste of the good life.
Then I looked at the links and found it was a young white woman from North Carolina.
Odd. Don't know why I heard it that way originally, it was just the cadence I put to it when reading it I guess.
nice one.
Must have been the formatting, CLF. There's a tradeoff when using the "pre" tag.
Pete, You seasonal ragbag detritus.
If we all posted poems as a FFP, they'd call this PoetryFilter. We've got four poetry posts: use 'em.
Not everybody likes poetry.
Not me! I huff the stuff whenever I can gets me sum. Great poem by the way. Funny, Frogs, I don't hear a voice or picture a poet--the poem stands alone in time and space. It can be disconcerting to have encountered something prior to hearing a reading.
Nevertheless. Put your pants on, go forth, and poesy no more.
I know, I know. I thought about tucking it into the liberry of congress thread but then I thought - hey, let's shock people, right? A poem right there on the FP! A Front Page Poem! Yow!
Plus I thought it was the bees' sneeze. Or at least he suggested the site that it eventually was on.
Nice one, petes!!!
;]
Awesome. It's like a threesome between Alan Ginsburg, Lord Byron, and Walt Whitman.
I find myself visiting the existing poetry threads less often because they tend to load slowly.
You took your scolding from the old hag well, Pete. Here's a poem because you're so good natured:
Complete Destruction
William Carlos Williams
It was an icy day.
We buried the cat,
then took her box
and set fire to it
in the back yard.
Those fleas that escaped
earth and fire
died by the cold.
Moving the Hive
The queen sleeps in my palm
through the forest.
Her workers are dark ribbons
that follow us
asking one thing.
Let her go let her go let her go.
They are black wool
covering my hands.
I wear them as a field
wears dust in the dry summer.
I wear them as the river
wears its speed.
Their wings --
I hear them as a house
closed for the season
hears its last voice.
When I release her
and she stumbles
to the new cells
it is the future
I lock her in, another
meadow where again
bees fall like fire
on the exposed flowers.
-- Frank Huyler.
Okay so now we have *five* poetry threads!
Wait, which ones are they again? (links please?)
Hive no idea which threads are being referred to, StoryBored, but here are some general and some on more particular subjects:
#552 (on lemmings), #2378, #3209 (sea sloths et al), #3403 (of lobster), #3466 (kakapo), #4318, #4405 (snivels about missing socks), #4446, #4724, #4726, #4994 (more sock-laments), #5101 (on bears), #5189 (light verse), #5779 (on vampire vegetation), #7219 (for tree-lovers), #7962, #8131, #8607 (cat), #8947 (Sappho), #9043 (beaver),#9048 (rhino), #9049 (clam, some bearded, some breaded), #9050 (pink foods), #9317 (limericks), #10478 (like Zorro!),#10844 (green pigs - marvellously illustrated!), #10858, #10866, #11686, #11861, #12196.
And doubtless more are out there, waiting to be stumbled over.
beautiful "Moving the Hive" bees, thanks!
I think a case could be made for a poem-as-FPP just because. It's not PoetryFilter but then again that is kinda one of the best things about it. It is. Kinda.
Sometimes I think coolitudes like that WCWilliams beauty ("Craikey! What a little beauty!") GramMa posted get lost in the liberry thread or something. To the general Monkey Populace that is.
Why not? Slap one on the Front Page, see who salutes. Although it's bound to be The Usual Suspects, who knows who else may happen in.
Beats 9/10ths of what's posted here...what's the beef?
Oh, Brave New World that has such Pete-pul innit!
The Italics Are Mine!
There was breathing but there were no bodies
Anywhere to be found & so we switched ourselves
Down a couple of notches and we barely moved
And we really listened and this time we really
Listened in case we could catch a glimpse or
Get an inkling or see something around the edges,
We stayed tamped and dampened and tuned which was
Fine which was what was needed to remind us
How silent a submarine can be & how slowly one
Can remove a glove if one wants to remove a glove
Very slowly one finger at a time almost reluc-
Tantly, so we waited better than we'd
Ever waited before or since & then some meteors
Started leaving long broad gauze trails in their wakes
In every direction we turned to look
Much of the breathing we'd half-dreaded had materialized,
Gasps, audible awes, little sighs, pink squeals,
Now and then crashingly thunderous rounds
Of applause almost, shocking, and it was.
I stuck this in, petes, since ye forgot to mention the name of the author of the poem above, Dara Wier.
Ack, thank ye Sir Bees!
And also:
from Remnants of Hannah
Wave Books
I llappreciate @ the nu
bile pome threads
Re: the old 1's get
sluggush & stutters
postpreviewwaits
for no one enough
already
A poem on the front, alas
Beespeakticles
for the
posting
Southern Comfort
Whiskey on the rocks. That was my dad's evening drink. As a girl, I liked to hold the glass, feel the cold against my cheek, then lift it up so I could see the light coming through the liquid, golden like the hairs on my father's arms, like the meadow that stretched out behind the barn. Sometimes I'd sip it, and if Mom were out of town, Dad would serve me my own drink, mixing lemon, sugar, whiskey, and water, letting me taste fire on my tongue, throat, and deep inside. Does it burn you, Daddy? No, he'd say. Not with just one drink. Then he'd pour himself another to take the edge off the day. And I'd watch it happen, the edges of the day dissolving, everything that had been the day, moving away from us, no longer true or obvious like the black and white of the clock-hands moving towards bed time. When at last it was dark and late, and all that was left were two pools of lamplight, tiny 40 watt islands, just for us, my father reading on the couch, me on my belly, head cocked sideways, staring at picture books I'd read a thousand times, I'd play a game in my mind, trying to hold on to that moment, make it last, just a little longer, and pretend, this is all there is. Just this, this whiskey light, the two of us alone, together, in a single summer night.
Nin Andrews
Sentence:
A Journal of Prose Poetics
No. 4
News
There's a mountain and a hundred miles
between me and the jazz station, but sometimes
I can live with the static, a kind of extra-tempo
air-drum percussion, the dead singer's voice
tanged by smokes and too much gin. Some days,
all I want is no news, none of the time.
On the other hand, this afternoon it wasn't music
pulled me up, but what the field guide calls
the black-chinned hummingbird's "thin, excited chippering."
It had got itself trapped in the garage, and though
the big door was open, it stayed in the window
through which it could clearly see a world.
By the time I heard it, it was so exhausted
it let itself be cupped in my slow man's hands,
and emitted, as I closed it in, a single chip then silence.
At the edge of the woods I knelt and opened my hands.
Not even thumb-thick, its body pulsed with breath,
its wings spread across my palm, its eyelash legs
sprawled left and right, indecorously. I stroked it
as lightly as I could, as I might not my lover's breast
but the down made seemingly of air thereon, and twice.
Then it flew, a slow lilt into the distance. For a while,
even peace seemed possible, in the background
Billie Holiday singing "Strange Fruit."
Robert Wrigley
Earthly Meditations:
New and Selected Poems
Penguin Books
*applauds*
petes why aren't I surprised ye like 'em jazzy?
Roll Call
Red Wolf came, and Passenger Pigeon,
the Dodo Bird, all the gone or endangered
came and crowded around in a circle,
the Bison, the Irish Elk, waited
silent, the Great White Bear, fluid and strong,
sliding from the sea, streaming and creeping
in the gathering darkness, nose down,
bowing to earth its tapered head,
where the Black-footed Ferret, paws folded,
stood in the center surveying the multitude
and spoke for us all: "Dearly beloved," it said.
-- William Stafford
:)
Observation
If I don't drive around the park,
I'm pretty sure to make my mark.
If I'm in bed each night by ten,
I may get back my looks again.
If I abstain from fun and such,
I'll probably amount to much;
But I shall stay the way I am,
Because I do not give a damn.
-- Dorothy Parker
"If I Don't Meet You in This Life,
Let Me Feel the Lack"
Not there is almost no sound and at night I am not afraid.
The next world will be made of paper and everything
will have the capacity to fly. Promise me it will be there
as it is here -- the raspberries climbing the trellis, the rivers
blue scripts. Because every story has two endings, I see your body
breaking down, I see you soaring in the light. Be taken with me.
Come pouring down unified.
-- Amy Quan Barry
Hummingbird
We buried the hummingbird
in his mantle of light, buried
him deep in the loam, one eye
staring into the earth's fiery
core, the other up through
the door in the sky. His needle
beak pointed east, his curled
feet west, and we each touched
our fingertips to his breast
before lifting them up from
the darkness to kiss. And
from our blessed fists we
rained the powdery dirt
down, erasing the folded
wings, the dream-colored
head, tamping the torn grass
with the heels of our hands,
our bare feet, summer almost
over, swaying together on the great
ship of death as clouds sailed by,
blowing our hair and the wind
walked us back to our room.
--Dorianne Laux
beautiful and sugarless
Apology to the Wasps
Terrorized by your stings,
I took out biochemical weapons
And blasted your nest
Like it was a third world country.
I was the United States Air Force.
It felt good to be so powerful
Until I saw your family
Trailing shredded wings,
Staggering on disintegrating legs,
Trying desperately to save the eggs
You had stung to protect.
--Sara Littlecrow-Russell
when trees were dogs and we were trees
when the gods get stoned
they stick together like trees
and bark like wooden dogs
throughout eternity
best we can do
is carve our love in stupid hearts
and roll over on our side of the bed
be she ever there or not
and try to remember when
they were us and we were them
and could not be separated
-- ray sweatman
*howls*
Stuffed
I put two yellow peepers in an owl.
Wow. I fix the grin of Crocodile.
Spiv. I sew the slither of an eel.
I jerk, kick-start, the back hooves of a mule.
Wild. I hold the red rag to a bull.
Mad. I spread the feathers of a gull.
I screw a tight snarl to a weasel.
Fierce. I stitch the flippers on a seal.
Splayed. I pierce the heartbeat of a quail.
I like her to be naked and to kneel.
Tame. My motionless, my living doll.
Mute. And afterwards I like her not to tell.
--Carol Ann Duffy
The Petelia Tablet
Inscription on golf foil from a tomb in south Italy, perhaps 4 the century B.C.
You will come to a well on the left side of hell's house.
A white cypress stands by it, luminous, pale.
Stay clear of this well at all cost. Don't drink from this well.
You will come to another; where cold water flows
from the marshes of memory. Sentinels stand there.
Say, "I am earth's and the starred sky's child, but the sky's
blood runs in my veins; you can see this yourselves.
Thirst dries me, withers me, gives me this instant
the cold water flowing out of memory's marsh."
They will give you water from the sacred wellhead
and you will be known .... heroes from then on.
............................................ going to die
............... this writing ................
..........................the darkness closing over.
-- Anonymous, translated from the Greek by Robert Bringburst
Eggs
I was unpacking a dozen eggs
into the fridge when I noticed a hairline crack
at which I pecked
till at long last I squeezed
into a freshly whitewashed
scullery in Cullenramer. It was all hush-hush
where my mother's mother took a potash rag
to a dozen new-laid eggs
and, balancing a basket on her bike,
pushed off for Dungannon. This was much
before the time a priest would touch
down from the Philippines with a clutch
of game bird eggs
and introduce a whole new strain of fighting cocks.
It would be midnight when my mother's mother got back
from Dungannon, now completely smashed
On hard liquor bought with hard cash,
fuck you, cash on the barrel. It was all hush-hush
as she was taken from a truck
painted matter-of-factly MILK & EGGS
into which they'd bundled her, along with her bike,
for delivery to Cullenramer. It would be all hush-hush
next morning in the whitewashed
scullery where she wrung out the potash
rag and took it to another dozen or so new-laid eggs,
from anyone of which I might yet poke
my little beak.
Paul Muldoon
Horse Latitudes
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
The Women of Kismayo
The breasts of Kismayo assembled
along the mid-day market street.
No airbrushed mangoes, no
black lace, no underwire chemise.
No half-cupped pleasures,
no come-hither nods, no Italian
centerfolds. Simply the women
of the town telling their men
to take action, to do something
equally bold. And the husbands
on their way home, expecting
sweet yams and meat,
moaned and covered their eyes,
screamed like spoiled children
dredged abruptly from sleep—
incredulous that their women
could unbutton such beauty
for other clans, who
(in between splayed
hands) watched quite willingly.
Give us your guns, here is our
cutlery, we are the men!
the women sang to them
an articulation without shame.
And now in the late night hour
when men want nothing but rest,
they fold their broken bodies, still
watched by their wives cool breasts
round, full, commanding as colonels—
two taut nipples targeting each man.
Susan Rich
Cures Include Travel
White Pine Press
Teaching the Ape to Write Poems
They didn't have much trouble
teaching the ape to write poems:
first they strapped him into the chair,
then tied the pencil around his hand
(the paper had already been nailed down).
Then Dr. Bluespire leaned over his shoulder
and whispered into his ear:
"You look like a god sitting there.
Why don't you try writing something?"
-James Tate
Heh. I resemble that remark.
Oops. I give you more James Tate as penance:
Never Again The Same
Speaking of sunsets,
last night's was shocking.
I mean, sunsets aren't supposed to frighten you, are they?
Well, this one was terrifying.
People were screaming in the streets.
Sure, it was beautiful, but far too beautiful.
It wasn't natural.
One climax followed another and then another
until your knees went weak
and you couldn't breathe.
The colors were definitely not of this world,
peaches dripping opium,
pandemonium of tangerines,
inferno of irises,
Plutonian emeralds,
all swirling and churning, swabbing,
like it was playing with us,
like we were nothing,
as if our whole lives were a preparation for this,
this for which nothing could have prepared us
and for which we could not have been less prepared.
The mockery of it all stung us bitterly.
And when it was finally over
we whimpered and cried and howled.
And then the streetlights came on as always
and we looked into one another's eyes?
ancient caves with still pools
and those little transparent fish
who have never seen even one ray of light.
And the calm that returned to us
was not even our own.
Wow.
as if our whole lives were a preparation for this,
this for which nothing could have prepared us
Yep. Know that.
Nicely penanceded there rocket. No wonder that first one resembled resonant rememberative recollections for me.
Let this pandemonium of tangerines be our delight, rocket!
Youse guys gotta remember, Bees has that photographic memory. Yah can't even slip one of your favorites in twice, cause he'll catch ya.
Ach, about the only thing bees can remember is when he's posted a poem, BlueHorse. And then only sometimes. Otherwise all is darkness.
Honey at the table
It fills you with the soft
essence of vanished flowers, it becomes
a trickle sharp as a hair that you follow
from the honey pot over the table
and out the door and over the ground,
and all the while it thickens,
grows deeper and wilder, edged
with pine boughs and wet boulders,
pawprints of bobcat and bear, until
deep in the forest you
shuffle up some tree, you rip the bark,
you float into and swallow the dripping combs,
bits of the tree, crushed bees -- a taste
composed of everything lost, in which everything lost is found.
-- Mary Oliver
To the Bridge of Love
To the bridge of love,
old stone between tall cliffs
--eternal meeting place, red evening --
I come with my heart.
My beloved is only water,
that always passes away, and does not deceive,
that always passes away, and does not change,
that always passes away, and does not end.
-- Juan Ramon Jimenez, translated by James Wright
voyage to the end
I sin so much harder now
knowing what I know
a sail snaps in the wind
I look the other way,
a dream is returning
from the year
of my birth
to be transfigured
like a DaVinci smile
a nightingale
parting the leaves
a melody
the silver-green
of corn husks
pouring a river
into the sea
redeeming
the Alamos I have lost
Copyright © 2006 Elisabeth Murawski All rights reserved
from Elixir
Caliban at sunset
I stood with a man
Watching the sun go down.
The air was full of murmurous summer scents
And a brave breeze sang like a bugle
From a sky that smouldered in the west,
A sky of crimson, amethyst, gold, and sepia
And blue as were the eyes of Helen
When she sat
Gazing from some high tower in Ilyium
Upon the Grecians tents darkling below.
And he,
This man who stood beside me,
Gaped like some dull, half-witted animal
And said,
"I say,
Doesn't that sunset remind you
Of a slice
Of underdone roast beef?"
-- P.G. Wodehouse
Peace in a time of war
A puddle of amber light
like sun spread on a table,
food flirting savor into the nose,
faces of friends, a vase
of daffodils and Dutch iris:
this is an evening of honey
on the tongue, cinnamon
scented, red wine sweet
and dry; voices rising
like a flock of swallows
turning together in evening
air. Darkness walls off
the room from what lies
outside, the fire and dust
and blood of war, bodies
stacked like firewood
burst like overripe melons.
Ceremony is a moat we have
crossed into a moment's
harmony, as if the world paused—
but it doesn't. What we must
do waits like coats tossed
on the bed, for us to rise
from this warm table,
put on again and go out.
-- Marge Piercy
When I Was Gone to Summer
When I was gone to summer green as paint, they came
and ground the vines to tangled piles.
A luna moth clung to the basement wall.
When leaves turned red as windows in my chest, they left
a bare tree, a tongue dulled
without a bell.
Where my eyes are shaped to the sea’s shape, nerves took root
and wove into my hand.
A door grows glossy as blood in the last light,
clapboards creamy in the gloaming
where I had gone; the summer came, as green as paint,
and my hand turned incarnadine.
When I pinch a bit of dust
and so compress expired stars, let
the weight of a bird be the volume of my thought.
-- Theodore Worozbyt
Song of the Abducted
The trees are full of owls. At night thousands
of them stare at me through the sunroom windows.
The phone rings; it is my dead friend, calling
from Boston. She talks & talks,
but I can get nothing out, I am choking
on questions. The owls' heads move so quickly
they do not seem to move. It started
when I was a child: late one night my father
stopped the car at a roadside park & dozed,
a silver thermos of coffee in his lap. I slept too,
in the back, & woke to a deer looking
in the window, its nose pressed against the glass,
eyes huge & glossy. The next thing I knew
it was morning & we were driving over the bridge
into Memphis. Later from a hotel room
I saw helicopters a few feet from the window,
but there was no noise. At night
everyone comes back to me eventually,
this one I loved & that one.
The air grows sharp as copper & there's
a beautiful green light that deepens
like water; I move through it slowly
but it is not wet & I never surface, no matter
how hard I kick my legs. Inside myself
I am several hours behind myself. From one summer
I recall flowers: sunflowers peering like faces
over a fence, knotted peonies fallen on the lawn.
For months, after I fell in love, I couldn't sleep
until dawn: nothing wedged itself between me
& the darkness. But passion dimmed to an ashy
smudge on the mirror & through the fanlight
I saw a collar of dead stars. The rumors you've heard
are true: behind danger lurks danger. Down
the street a house is on fire. Red light courses
through the room & I feel smoke like sticky oil
on my arms, the warm spot where the cat
was sleeping. When I come to I am peering
into the blue face of the television.
There is snow & in the snow a hint of static,
something cold & shifty I cannot turn off.
-- Aleda Shirley
Apples
1.
The grackles keep their distance. Sharp-
winged complainers, they sideways
out of reach.
If I could touch them I would
say bone-light. I would call them warm.
If I could hold one I could smell one.
I would call it wing-sharp, I would call
the smell a name like marrow.
2.
Again. The old man rakes his yard. Again,
the slick sacks of leaves impenetrable as cairns,
the symmetry of them, how countable they are.
He is making progress.
3.
a grocery list, the words for food
so perfect, so three
bananas, so
soup,
so orderly and strange, so
apples
that I have to write it twice,
apples,
maybe three times
Copyright © 2006 Meagan Evans All rights reserved
from Black Warrior Review
via Verse Daily®
... so grackled
... so raked
;]
The Waterbed Does New York
When I asked you to write a story
about your afternoon, I meant something
that had actually happened to you.
There is a mighty gap
between creativity and lying.
Waterbeds can not call your bluff,
and can not dislike persimmons.
. . .
I mean there is personification
and then there is personification.
. . .
And a waterbed’s eyes can most definitely not
‘narrow as though in a Western showdown’!
Do you understand me?!
Yes, Miss.
Personification and personification.
That much is clear.
Certainly.
She doesn’t have to sleep with the damn thing, does she.
-- Louise Wallace
Coming Becomes You
Coming be-
comes you,
little one:
rockabye world as you lie, and the great pang takes you in
waves. Coming
becomes you.
With horses you come, with arabian
slather with jugular grunts and in
fretwork, in fistfuls, on Fridays we come in the
danger and midnight of horses.
Coming you come like a spill, like a
spell, like a spoonful of flesh in the
roaring, high on blood
ocean, come with your horses, you come to be played.
In after-
come, you nuzzle;
you nestle and noodle and nest.
And the ghosts in your eyes
do their long-legged, chaste parade.
Each time such sadness
hushes me: slow
ache in your gaze—nostalgia for
now, for now as it
goes away. You're
beautiful, small
queen of the pillow drowse, and
rockabye world in my arms.
Coming becomes you.
-- Dennis Lee
danger and midnight of horses.
Beautiful, thank you.
An Ideal Lure
after John Clare
Sun-treeing, a tease, I of ten loves took leave
Or held vigils, moored sea-brood for pillow.
Woe's ripe swill thoroughly reeks of skunk filigree
Like hapless pie-shovelers mewling as they chew
And marbled, the stunned sky diminishes the beach.
Turned beekeeper on the berry hives of breath
And on the brink sea droves in blooming reach
Their sting's what's in the way of hot death
Wriggled out of smoke-stops ashed, upend their swarm
By cattails punking from the steaming marsh
While lilies moor their roots their shoreward home
And rebel to the very cusp in garish
Juiced light they whirl, summer's tribe and fathom
While otters writhe, heaving from the bottom.
-- Sharon Dolin
Avant-gardening on my weeping knees
tending to the green
immargination of the plot
I tidy up the loose ends of my lines
while all about me twine
the scrollwork and fretwork
of intelligent and perverse design
wing-stroke and piston-stroke
play heartburn music
on the underside of sense
while I pursue
the noble and miserable hounds
of vernacular economics
turning over spadefuls of apparent earth
my fat and vocable wealth
the soil here is the soul
of intelligence
a miracle of steadfastness
in the windy mess
that splatters the whole as I range widely
and with complicated passion
in the dirty possibilities
of the fascinated ground
Sidney Wade
Verse
Vol. 23, Numbers 1-3
The Joy is Everywhere
This coming from a guy who hasn't had sex in a really long time.
Well, had sex five weeks ago, once, with a woman in another state
and it was like visiting The Planetarium.
Fascinating
but you don't go back for another seven years.
And when I saw the planets this morning I was not a genius.
When I heard the birds they were swallows.
It was fifty-two degrees outside
and the joy was everywhere.
And for a long time the sex was everywhere
but seven years and five weeks have passed.
Now, there is only a bowl of apples on the counter
and the hungry body waltzing through today.
That was me in a nutshell yesterday
after the joy was in my knees
and my eye twitched for hours.
I'll tell you, not having sex is a waltz all by itself.
And then all your married friends say,
It's a draft from under the door, sex.
What do they mean?
Still, they are the married friends and ride bikes together
over big hills and into puddles
and their joy is a yellow flower everywhere.
My joy is an unbalanced checkbook,
the bills paid,
the smooth river of my ever-expanding body.
And that woman in the other state, oh,
she tasted so good and had such tropical nipples.
They were mangos or something yellow like that
when I had sex with her five weeks ago.
We won't marry, have farms,
buy cars and jewelry.
We won't talk about pianos or diapers
and we certainly won't ring doorbells.
But even when the moon goes down into nothing
there is joy everywhere
when you are not having sex
and just waltzing for hours on end around the world,
into the furniture, the moon, the space inside your own feet that is everything.
Copyright © 2007 Matthew Lippman All rights reserved
from The New Year of Yellow
Sarabande Books
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