POEMS
EVAPORATION - I (for Valerie Mejer)
It’s not an insult to refuse to drain the glass, she tells
me
And a fly crawls from the bowl of salsa picante.
Would you choose to bury the organs with the child?
And he retreats to his room and closes the door.
Here, birds in the zócalo whiz and tweet like children’s
toys
And there, a charred corpse hanging from the bridge.
From the seat behind, the boy pokes his sister’s head with a
plastic fork
And getting no response, tests it on his own head.
Would you kindly turn the damn wipers off, the attendant
asks
And the odor of manure and wet hay hits us.
A kind of mystery gloms to those who have suffered deeply
And thank you Mr. and Mrs. Radiance.
It sounded like the chimmuck of a rock dropped into a stream
And the piston-driven breathing of sex.
The couple at the bus station—when had we kissed like that?
And Nice evening—Yes it is—A bit skunky—That’s for sure.
Terrorist and victim circling the last chair as the music
stops
And the valves of their mouths snapping open and shut.
When I rise out of myself into occasion, I said
And when do you rise out of yourself into occasion, she
asked.
Late enough to count maple loopers and geometrids at the
window
And the boy will be coming up the porch steps when he comes.
The long row of treadmills choiring
And above them, televisions replay the disaster.
EVAPORATION - III (for Anya Utler)
Look how cold it looks on the yellow linoleum, she said.
Like watching a thumb war, he mumbled.
Spent the whole damn morning with the dishwasher man, she
alerted him.
Standing in line watching the nape of the man in front of
me, he remembered.
Perseid meteors from the radiant in the predawn, she read.
Is it really called Sutra of Angular Severity, he wondered.
Crossed out and then stetted, she noted.
High-speed dust fluorescing as it collides with solar wind,
he read.
Now it’s flu season, she wondered, should we give the boy an
eye-wash?
They call it painting your throat, he noted, dipping the
gauze in iodine.
In their component fatigue, the days… she mumbled.
And then you were talking in a French patois and wanting to
go out, he said.
To be defiled is to be recognizable to yourself, she
thought.
