The Wind and Fifteen Other Syllables

    For you, Emily:
asleep in your bed and yet
busy in my dreams
  

    Before winter falls
you will bruise your perfect hands
picking up pine cones
  

    December's first frost—
Palmetto bugs on their backs
Coiled millipedes
  

    I leap a snow drift
Then ice slides down my ankle
Cool against my sock
  

    A crackling fireplace
ghosts in the wintry blue smoke—
No more photographs
  

    Familiar psalms
Photographs in the ashes
Pneumonia again
  

    You hum in my palm
then an old man's perfume then
a pill in my milk
  

    "Mount Everest wears
a snow cap all winter long,"
I laugh through my scarf
  

    A zipper is stuck
Yanking and tearing it loose
It pinches my neck
  

    Snowy bright morning
waking to the soft crunch of
your feet on the rug
  

    December moonlight
stale breath and a yellow cloud
The wind is so cold
  

    I light a candle
glowing on the windowsill:
fog mutes the city
  

    Smell of gingerbread
Thousands of shoppers with lists:
Such cannibalism
  

    Holiday season:
A bookstore closes early
The midwives rejoice
  

    The winter solstice—
How long the night is for us
who sleep walk til Spring!
  

    What more can I say?
I thought it was mistletoe
so fucking sue me
  

    Whose bloodstains are these?
The pillowcase is ruined
The snow is falling
  

    Row of icicles
I protect my head and walk:
The city is white
  

    Smell of sauerkraut
You bundle up in blankets
thicker than last year
  

    Sky grey cloud, a breath,
Traffic jam of honking geese
The ice cracks loudly
  

    February night—
Most unwelcoming to the
crestfallen and plain
  

    We are castrated
We created a wax breast—
A wet cadaver
  

    An insomniac
bumping into furniture
until morning comes
  

    World-weary dreamer,
tears and moonlight coalesce
there on your pillow
  

    Sad accordion,
Chin up now because you've been
anthropomorphized!
  

    Inevitably
the scarcity of small game
causes a panic
  

    Upon the meadow
a rabbit waits patiently
between the crosshairs
  

    An asthma attack—
Grass stains on the first white pants
of the early spring
  

    Beatlemania
Here comes the sun and I say,
"It's all right" with George
  

    Thirteenth day of spring:
Trees blossoming, allergies,
It is still cold out
  

    Nasal congestion:
It feels ten o'clock at night
by the pharmacy
  

    Lozenge on your tongue
Your head upon the pillow
Under the weather
  

    A mother's shadow
encompasses a baby
Where is the body?
  

    Behind the bright eggs
hidden by pious adults,
children find nothing
  

    A fancy hotel
aquarium springs to life
when I tap the glass
  

    A thick wind picks up—
soon, the dude ranch will vanish
in a tornado
  

    Wind comes to a stop
before a row of pine trees:
rain in the distance
  

    Stacks of paper work
Coffee rings louder than birds
Raining this morning
  

    Against the window
Raindrops paint a spring landscape
Lazy Cézannes, all
  

    Letter from college:
Forgetting to take your pills
but doing ok
  

    Humorous poet
Resumes his idle duty
Clipping a bonsai
  

    Rain in the sunshine
Sunshine glorious sunshine
Glasses wet with rain
  

    Van Morrison sings:
Sha la la la la la la
Over dewey grass
  

    Late April morning—
a plant grows toward the sun
like an Icarus
  

    Lightning and thunder—
the ungulates assemble
in the leaky barn
  

    After heavy rains
horseflies deliver their young
in a mud puddle
  

    With a heavy clop
my neighbor puts his shoe on
atop the staircase
  

    The gate swings open
one hundred cats run through it
The hinge needs some oil
  

    I pass a black cat
to eye him with suspicion,
and no memory
  

    A dull razor blade
I turn it over my chin:
No beard or nothing
  

    Bougainvillea—
Notice it is like I am
after a haircut
  

    Budding peony
which is an omen which is
a rare thing these days
  

    Buzzing honeycomb,
I'm counting on my fingers
the bees I've noticed
  

    Sharp green smear and squash:
Mantis stains on my left foot
but there are its eggs!
  

    Sunlight in the groves
gently guides a virgin's hand
to a ripe olive
  

    Junebugs on windows
Dogs lie in the shade of the
disused band shell
  

    Humid afternoons:
Mexican mint marigold
tea in the garden
  

    The wind borrows kites
and then makes poems of them
for the sunbathers
  

    A migrating swan
becomes grey in the distance—
June is orange here
  

    Empty summer sky—
The claustrophobic hunter
lays down his rifle
  

    Blue altostratus—
I don't know the color of
the grass beneath me
  

    This room is so hot
Refilling an ice cube tray
This room is so hot
  

    I make scrambled eggs
July scorches the tall grass
with indifference
  

    I'm crushing garlic
I am ok when I cook
In fact, I'm happy
  

    The tolling wind chime
is louder than the traffic—
still barely a breeze
  

    In the quiet of
summer night comes a hint of
something I'm sure of
  

    On a July night
I hear the dodo singing
but only faintly
  

    The poet wakes with
panic that he is without
something to write with
  

    The lunar craters
one day will welcome our plants
to their dusty soil
  

    Corn obscures the road
Lost in Ohio for days—
Smell of a bean field
  

    A silver apple
bleached by the sun yet remains
painted on a barn
  

    Doing the laundry
I fold your arms all around
and dance with your shirt
  

    Upside down like that
tears of laughter roll backwards
into your eyebrows
  

    Iowa beckons:
"You've got a map down there,"
a stranger's voice cries
  

    In a low lawn chair
the gardener hears music—
sound of coming rain
  

    Atlantic ocean
The beach is so full of crabs!
Hundreds of black crabs!
  

    Choppy ocean waves—
I clench a life preserver
and study its weight
  

    Flower in your hair
in a burst of August wind
in a photograph
  

    Leaving a hotel—
A sough comes naturally
at a time like this
  

    September arrives:
with it a bad memory
of a skeleton
  

    Walking in Sumter
takes some determination
without good sneakers
  

    An extra olive
sweet and green has crashed down from
the cool sky above
  

    Lonely blue firefly
comes from the moonlight to fall
asleep on my lamp
  

    Behind the boat house
the early autumn night comes
to anxious green leaves
  

    Listen carefully,
Acorns rattle down the roof
like clumsy burglars
  

    A banana peel
browning in the compost heap
near some artichokes
  

    Discarded apple
goes brown in the autumn air:
it is black with ants
  

    Our hydrangea
has a flower this morning
We kiss during lunch
  

    Pouring orange juice
Stepping over yellow leaves—
Splashes of color
  

    The leaves are golden
I know they're dying, but still
the leaves are golden
  

    A light rain follows
the election day traffic
into the sunset
  

    Gust of November—
I stoop to tie my shoe lace
the wind goofs me up
  

    Thanksgiving dinner
In-laws wait patiently for
some cranberry sauce
  

    Like a gawky maid,
the sun collapses on pines,
spilling gold through them
  

    The leafless tree sways
It holds a nest and I hold
A dull razor blade
  

    A bad memory—
There, in the dirty attic,
When you found yourself
  

    Black ink on my skin
pen drips contiuously
Outlining a fly
  

    Nearly silently
snowflakes patter on red leaves
in the bright morning
  

    There's your fingerprint
in the glossy magazines
scratching at perfume
  

    While the butter melts
an owl hoots incessantly
during our breakfast
  

    While I drink coffee
I find a gecko hiding
on the warm modem
  

    The lizard stops dead,
a few minutes later goes
up the wall again
  

    Pandemonium
Play your oboe slowly though
your mother won't know
  

    Surrounded by steam—
A transparent spider sees
its fragile web razed
  

    Your deep, steady breath
moves the wind across my ear
I listen all night
  

    Deep inside a dream—
Kitchen cupboards crack and burst
Blinking smoke alarm
  

    Berries are crashing
the winter months are coming
You won't freeze, red spot
  

For you, Emily: asleep in your bed and yet busy in my dreams

Before winter falls you will bruise your perfect hands picking up pine cones

December’s first frost— Palmetto bugs on their backs Coiled millipedes

I leap a snow drift Then ice slides down my ankle Cool against my sock

A crackling fireplace ghosts in the wintry blue smoke— No more photographs

Familiar psalms Photographs in the ashes Pneumonia again

You hum in my palm then an old man’s perfume then a pill in my milk

“Mount Everest wears a snow cap all winter long,” I laugh through my scarf

A zipper is stuck Yanking and tearing it loose It pinches my neck

Snowy bright morning waking to the soft crunch of your feet on the rug

December moonlight stale breath and a yellow cloud The wind is so cold

I light a candle glowing on the windowsill: fog mutes the city

Smell of gingerbread Thousands of shoppers with lists: Such cannibalism

Holiday season: A bookstore closes early The midwives rejoice

The winter solstice— How long the night is for us who sleep walk til Spring!

What more can I say? I thought it was mistletoe so fucking sue me

Whose bloodstains are these? The pillowcase is ruined The snow is falling

Row of icicles I protect my head and walk: The city is white

Smell of sauerkraut You bundle up in blankets thicker than last year

Sky grey cloud, a breath, Traffic jam of honking geese The ice cracks loudly

February night— Most unwelcoming to the crestfallen and plain

We are castrated We created a wax breast— A wet cadaver

An insomniac bumping into furniture until morning comes

World-weary dreamer, tears and moonlight coalesce there on your pillow

Sad accordion, Chin up now because you’ve been anthropomorphized!

Inevitably the scarcity of small game causes a panic

Upon the meadow a rabbit waits patiently between the crosshairs

An asthma attack— Grass stains on the first white pants of the early spring

Beatlemania Here comes the sun and I say, “It’s all right” with George

Thirteenth day of spring: Trees blossoming, allergies, It is still cold out

Nasal congestion: It feels ten o’clock at night by the pharmacy

Lozenge on your tongue Your head upon the pillow Under the weather

A mother’s shadow encompasses a baby Where is the body?

Behind the bright eggs hidden by pious adults, children find nothing

A fancy hotel aquarium springs to life when I tap the glass

A thick wind picks up— soon, the dude ranch will vanish in a tornado

Wind comes to a stop before a row of pine trees: rain in the distance

Stacks of paper work Coffee rings louder than birds Raining this morning

Against the window Raindrops paint a spring landscape Lazy Cézannes, all

Letter from college: Forgetting to take your pills but doing ok

Humorous poet Resumes his idle duty Clipping a bonsai

Rain in the sunshine Sunshine glorious sunshine Glasses wet with rain

Van Morrison sings: Sha la la la la la la Over dewey grass

Late April morning— a plant grows toward the sun like an Icarus

Lightning and thunder— the ungulates assemble in the leaky barn

After heavy rains horseflies deliver their young in a mud puddle

With a heavy clop my neighbor puts his shoe on atop the staircase

The gate swings open one hundred cats run through it The hinge needs some oil

I pass a black cat to eye him with suspicion, and no memory

A dull razor blade I turn it over my chin: No beard or nothing

Bougainvillea— Notice it is like I am after a haircut

Budding peony which is an omen which is a rare thing these days

Buzzing honeycomb, I’m counting on my fingers the bees I’ve noticed

Sharp green smear and squash: Mantis stains on my left foot but there are its eggs!

Sunlight in the groves gently guides a virgin’s hand to a ripe olive

Junebugs on windows Dogs lie in the shade of the disused band shell

Humid afternoons: Mexican mint marigold tea in the garden

The wind borrows kites and then makes poems of them for the sunbathers

A migrating swan becomes grey in the distance— June is orange here

Empty summer sky— The claustrophobic hunter lays down his rifle

Blue altostratus— I don’t know the color of the grass beneath me

This room is so hot Refilling an ice cube tray This room is so hot

I make scrambled eggs July scorches the tall grass with indifference

I’m crushing garlic I am ok when I cook In fact, I’m happy

The tolling wind chime is louder than the traffic— still barely a breeze

In the quiet of summer night comes a hint of something I’m sure of

On a July night I hear the dodo singing but only faintly

The poet wakes with panic that he is without something to write with

The lunar craters one day will welcome our plants to their dusty soil

Corn obscures the road Lost in Ohio for days— Smell of a bean field

A silver apple bleached by the sun yet remains painted on a barn

Doing the laundry I fold your arms all around and dance with your shirt

Upside down like that tears of laughter roll backwards into your eyebrows

Iowa beckons: “You’ve got a map down there,” a stranger’s voice cries

In a low lawn chair the gardener hears music— sound of coming rain

Atlantic ocean The beach is so full of crabs! Hundreds of black crabs!

Choppy ocean waves— I clench a life preserver and study its weight

Flower in your hair in a burst of August wind in a photograph

Leaving a hotel— A sough comes naturally at a time like this

September arrives: with it a bad memory of a skeleton

Walking in Sumter takes some determination without good sneakers

An extra olive sweet and green has crashed down from the cool sky above

Lonely blue firefly comes from the moonlight to fall asleep on my lamp

Behind the boat house the early autumn night comes to anxious green leaves

Listen carefully, Acorns rattle down the roof like clumsy burglars

A banana peel browning in the compost heap near some artichokes

Discarded apple goes brown in the autumn air: it is black with ants

Our hydrangea has a flower this morning We kiss during lunch

Pouring orange juice Stepping over yellow leaves— Splashes of color

The leaves are golden I know they’re dying, but still the leaves are golden

A light rain follows the election day traffic into the sunset

Gust of November— I stoop to tie my shoe lace the wind goofs me up

Thanksgiving dinner In-laws wait patiently for some cranberry sauce

Like a gawky maid, the sun collapses on pines, spilling gold through them

The leafless tree sways It holds a nest and I hold A dull razor blade

A bad memory— There, in the dirty attic, When you found yourself

Black ink on my skin pen drips contiuously Outlining a fly

Nearly silently snowflakes patter on red leaves in the bright morning

There’s your fingerprint in the glossy magazines scratching at perfume

While the butter melts an owl hoots incessantly during our breakfast

While I drink coffee I find a gecko hiding on the warm modem

The lizard stops dead, a few minutes later goes up the wall again

Pandemonium Play your oboe slowly though your mother won’t know

Surrounded by steam— A transparent spider sees its fragile web razed

Your deep, steady breath moves the wind across my ear I listen all night

Deep inside a dream— Kitchen cupboards crack and burst Blinking smoke alarm

Berries are crashing the winter months are coming You won’t freeze, red spot