Charlie Smith

Sounds Like Love
October 9, 2014 Smith Charlie

Sounds Like Love


A spacial infirmity

what’s closed-up like a child in a closet,


too softly to be heard.  Like


the little stream

with the broken back

that behind the barn collects

the bitter run-off.  A scarlet sky


foretells the fall

0f humankind.  Clouds like saggy diapers.

The fields flex their big muscles,

getting ready for the stare-down


with the stars.  It’s winter,

then summer comes perfumed like a toiletries salesman.

Raspberries bend quadrate

branches like children


about to swing into eternity.  I’m limited,

she says, but not alarmed,

and ineffectively violent.  Sometimes

we block love


like dump trucks on strike at the kiln.

The closed-off future

taps at the window.  It’s the echo

that’s scary.  Suffering


completes its tax return,

listing no dependents.  The papered-over

bits have shifted in the night.

Grim looks grimness


in the eye.  You always

taste of salt.  At the site tiny

storms rage

among the balled-up dresses.


Someone’s heart’s

been cut out and used

for a footbath.  Sounds like love,

says the mayor, but then to me everything does. 

“Trees Pushing on into Late Fall” is from Charlie Smith’s new book Demo, his ninth poetry book. His ninth fiction book, Ginny Gall, a long novel, is just out from Harper.