GET ON YOUR PONY AND RIDE
You are under the impression that my poems
Inspect the baroque business
Of being in the world (dawn light, texture
Of clothes, bare feet on stairs, hand
Skimming a railing), that they assay
What it feels like to be awake, to have sex
On the brain, to be sobered by memory, inspired
By chance, all the while feeding gossip to birds and love
To friends, etc., etc., but if you must know the truth
Inside each word (like pigeons cooing in belfries)
There is a perplexing acceptance
Of the fact that we are never free
That even this hand, this eye, this right
To die, must vanish in the end.
BIG WHEEL
What a divine racket the soul’s orchestral music makes
On the tireless beat of its rounds—whose soul, what rounds,
Don’t ask. It takes a very big wheel to turn
Humanity’s eye in a new direction. But let’s do right
By today’s fast paced rivers, moving like sylphs
At dusk and like stumble-bums at dawn as the sun rises
On the dream’s last wisps, light smashing
The white barn, shadows tucked behind your ear
For mammalian warmth. Free of charge you can watch
Me paint love’s narrative a bright yellow, featuring
What’s been happening since last Tuesday when I delivered
Lamb chops to your door, and you sprinkled rosemary
On them, and we opened a bottle of Malbec and ate
Turnips and bok choi and rice and bleated in unison.
