buttons on your blouse
I never wrote about
I never saw them
my old sweetheart
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Sunday morning, down an occupied street
cars slow to a halt.
A ribbon of smoke from his pipe.
Suddenly the clouds are performing prostrations.
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Sun-filled sink,
dulcet percolations sputtering
in the pot. Last night
what was the May wind doing
following the fish truck?
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Rain
it rains.
The soft cool soft
rain air
of September.
Sinking
the weight
of his question
into
slick rock
the boy asks
Where am I
going
to go?
his feet sliding
into down
stream
sediment
and repeats
Where
am I going to
go?
and continues
Where
am
I
going
to
go?
Where am
I
going
to go?
waiting until his feet
might just
disolve
into ever-
downward
swish
to the Atlantic
Ocean
the Atlantic Ocean!
to the
Atlantic!
Question,
and the moment after.
Condensation,
and the long sped return
to
dust,
dust in a
drop,
round collision
tossed
words still
round
a denser
point
lateral
to their sound.
Seep,
into
warm
planet
below writhing hoard of
the unspoken
in desert sand
a silence with caked leathers
encamped
in horse scented dark
by white flame and starlit
chime
prayerfume and trumpet
call
below it all
a pocked mineral waits
to rise and gouge endlessly
our
hung
mottoes
The breeze,
cooler still.
Some hairs on my arm
stand on
end, oh
heights
massive heights
of September
wind.
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Quarry Song
First leaves on the water. The black surface. The autumn wind. Quarry pools shiver.
The coming rain. Breath stretches thin. I'm jumping in.
I'm jumping in. The autumn wind. The coming rain. I'm jumping in.
It comes up, it still does. A sudden cloud on the surface. A cormorant. A toad.
The granite. A world up from the black. Sky on the black. It stretches thin. The autumn wind.
The autumn wind. I'm jumping in.
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