the snow is falling at a sharp angle /
like its trying to move away for us /
leave the irate humans behind /
in their fixation on sweeping almost everything away /
scrubbing the ground until they can see their faces /
in cracked concrete and flood diversions /
each flake is an open palm /
patting us on the head /
as we walk towards the door /
stumbling for the keys
there is one pie cooling on the horizon /
described as golden, expansive, portioned /
but the plate is licked clean /
by lengthy, manicured tongues /
yet the described aroma remains /
lifting off perfectly cut memos /
and the boldest of fonts /
eat what you see /
in recipes dropped in your domain /
few have the current to bake so big
oh to be Blake’s caddy /
retrieving all those fiery hole-in-ones /
conferring on the visible wind and distance of Jerusalem’s new green /
weighing the irons and fire in the air for a stroke’s incendiary placement /
relaxing the crowd’s stanchion for a closer argument over the latest king /
keeping rhythm rather than score on illuminated cards /
starting at 18 and playing down to 1 /
where the course rages and rolls in its hidden valley
the body is here again /
cursing house finches who partially solved the problem millennia ago /
mocking gravity with rises and dips /
only looking down for what always drops /
we had an agreement, civil indifference /
you go your way and I’ll comment from the back seat /
keeping my own notes at the stops /
but now we both hold the handrail /
trying to keep the rhythm of the fall
the body is an excuse to be here /
favored for leaving tracks on this orb /
remember when the moon moved with a gesture /
and to cry was a current flooding the dam /
now, the many nows, leave a stutter diverting to the ditch /
where low-light mumbles during interrupted sleep /
are the gospel of aging organs
each to their waiting coffin as warm as morning coffee /
made of newspaper clippings, magazine articles and marked-up indexes /
all that was read that became flesh, bruising against the day’s corners /
the coffin folds up, pocket-size, always at the ready for short or long falls /
but mostly it leans against the wall behind the couch, creaking in the furnace draft /
until a frigid dawn when its door freezes open and the lines layered with iced breath/
break apart into random blocks at the feet, too far for hands
a dollar down gets moral outrage /
and a take-home bag of assumptions /
plus a self-righteous tan /
like Chuck Heston on the beach /
howling the twist out past waves /
to plastic shores of crumbling developments /
where armies plan their offensive against fluoride /
unaware their best books /
are written by foreigners /
living in the basement
here’s to the meteor being a little nearer next time / close enough to feel its dusty hot breeze in our eyes / close enough to tarnish the silver for sunday dinner / close enough to rub the dog’s hair the wrong way / close enough to knock out a few nails in the treehouse / close enough to tilt the required flag poles / close enough to part the reservoir / close enough to flip a few 0s and 1s / close enough to light every neighborhood street adequately / close enough to brighten the days with an equal sheen for all
nearly there aiming for /
approximate average quote /
space beside the specific /
that pushes the ship past gravity /
a clear trend line fueling /
a looting of unexpected shares in expired suburbs /
the same thing they sold /
backward shorthand if you don’t speak the ease/
all one spend convenient blanched currency /
dare say “what?” at /
the community gate
comfort causes pain /
sitting still disturbs grasshoppers mulling over their next locust move /
no fortified strong backarm doesn’t /
crack the clavicle already bent over stateless /
motionless in a room diminished every thing /
its easy to remove the body from the heart