Sail OnSail on,little wing,with starlingsin your pocketsand that turned up smilebelow your navel -glorious budof mischief.Don't you knowGod made this dayjust for you?The grass begs for your kneesto rolland the palms of your handsto strokethe vivid green,and the skywelcomes you like Calypsointo my waiting armsCome put those petalson my facelike only youknow how to doand make me hum.We are burning daylight -glorious blisterson my toesand right below my beltlinewhere your sunbroke promiseand set my spinesinging.
This Disturbing MagicIf you listen very closelyyou will hearsummer longing to be remembered -the soft chortle of beesmarried to low tideand the bright whiteof Asterslowering their flagsagainst the early sunset,as if to remind usonly our memories are warm.You can hear the curtains breathe,impatient flood through weavein pale tawnyand lemon,and the garden's edgepucker up its troveof green embers,making way for the dog'swet kissesand wool mitten bit fingersstringing the hedgerowswith this disturbing magic.
ClothesOur clothes got lostcoming home -I think they slipped offto Morocco,or went skinny dipping,you whisperedin that bare skin voice of yours.Or maybe they are seducingthe back seatof a taxi,daring the floorboardsnot to creakand the windowsnot to blink.Perhaps even nowthe shameless pinkof your blouseis undressing my jacket.stripping my lapelsloose and leanand my jeansare coaxing the redright outof your skirtand holding it hostage,or maybe the elusive coolof your shouldersis windburnand urging my tieto trap your touch.Besides, morning is crammedbetween my ears againand I don't recognize uswith our clothes on.
Tweet Thistweet this,sweet thing -i caught youwith your hair down lowlike a songbirdand your skirt up,lifted heaven scent,calling us home.didn't i warn youwhat jazzand funny cigarettescould do?how your days and legswould just disappearand the couchwould swallow us whole?just be sureto marry a good boy,one handsome as a cliffwith a cleft chinwho will come homeearlyon the buswith dinner in a bagand fill you up with babies -little pink testamentsto you and me.
TravelersThis sweet little backwateryou called homenever wanted us.We were not so much a nameas a complaintthe rude intercourse of questionsand laundry left distillingon the linealong with the hide and seekof neighbors in our wake.They wouldn't let usbe enoughsaid we were crudeand the grist of our marriagetoo strange a talefor covered dishesor county fairsour love too remote a roadfor families to travel onalone.So we will pack up our wagononce againset the pots out to dryand wonderwho will feed the cat.We will cancel the milk and mailtoo much kindnessin one day.For leaving is a simple thinga weary side note, reallyAnd good-byenever seems to happen.
Hamlet's Last LamentFrom atop this perfect perchin ChristendomI spy with my little eyesomething, something rottingin the state of Denmark -maybe just my father's last ritesor his breathoff the North Sealike a whiff of bad luckholding up these ramparts.I see his ghostplaying cards in the stableand trying to bed the chambermaidsin the larder againbut Gertrude doesn't notice -too busy at her loomunravelling her lady's partsand longing for a mama's boyto suckle at her loins.I watch the girl next doorgrow smallerand sleep alone,worn down by a week's catechismsto pin upn her sleeve,a parting giftfrom this unconstant swain.And far below my fool awaits,his dull circle of bellsand felt-flap cheekssomersault across the rocksbeckoning me to join him.Hell's teeth -it's a glorious night for a swimand the leap just might takemy breath away.
VestibuleAutumn's vestibule -oak leaves find me in colorsno one has ever heard ofand bark peels backits second skin,supple with new birth.Somewhere deep insidepine soaks throughthe forest floor -lush needles underneath,a damp and fragrant sponge,where I trace the flight.of lazy monarchs,blown far from homeby September's beck and call.
Into the WoodsThe world looksvery different today -the old cabinby the creekhas moved once more,taken itself to higher ground,and the deer have leftto haunt the hollow,their haunches quiveringlike rising sap.We venture out, knowingwe will lose our way again,waiting for dogs to ambush our feetas we cut a paththrough the sumacand watchthe reeds breathe minnowsthrough the cold blisterof waterrushing through the trees.Your hand closes,a lonely animal in mine,and the leavescan smell our fearthick as spoorwhile we pick our waythrough the thickening blurof green,wondering which wayis true north.
Chelsea MorningMorning tea comes too soonwith a slap of newsprintat my doorwhile twenty floors belowsome sweet young thingpromises the end of the worldon a postcard.If these walls could talkI would probably weepbecause the painthas not been seen in yearsand covers nothing.My pillow is a thin bufferagainst the noise next door,and down the hallI can hear the maidflick her ashesdown the laundry chute,slipping the matchesinto her braand praying the guy in 113did not dream of her againall over his sheets.My blanket weighs a tonand the elevator grindingto a haltis my last stabat anything rational.This must be how Joey feltor maybe Sid.You know -funky in a beat up sort of way,the mattress upstairschugging awayand last nighttaking up too much spacein my mouth.