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*
A few shrugs and my jacket
calmed, its fleece
a kamikaze swoon
against a firewall :my jacket
grazing on the sun :each night
the lamb staked to my back
thinks it's grass, eats through the light
and the sun who never lost before
sifts down :the stars creaking into place.
The fan's no help :headwinds
side to side each shoulder
digs out a wave :the slow roll
back into the world and from the sea
petals :rafts emptied as if some throttle
iced in its dead-straight dive
torn from the wings still circling Spring
children's songs, one valley more
and from the sea its trance :my jacket
reeking from salt block and hoses
--every night the pain in my back
points up, east, the sun
will whiten me too.
*
How cautiously the fans, this air
still dangerous, wiping out all traces
--the room cools and my ears
slowly at first - the engines
sound smaller, beginning to heat
--the gloves stinking from cracks
and dry blood - this air
--you've seen it done before, don't
get me nervous - closer, I can tell
one blade is gaining on the others
needs adjustment, a knob somehow
--this air wants to come back
is gaining momentum, grinding down
and the room smaller, my arms
smaller, almost forgotten - you've seen it
a hundred times, a fan in each hand
held out - just off my left arm
all those wires go on burning, to my right
the wall doesn't care - the room
cold now, cleared for weather reports
and headings - this air still lost
picking up speed, any minute now
breaking the paint and door.
*
A private gesture - suddenly one arm
rolls as if it found the field
could guess where the wind - you
don't see my hand over hand, by instinct
shoving the ground away - it's habit now
--wiping oil leaks
--strapped to a canvas shopping bag
full blown with groggy rags
with dangling countryside - every morning
one arm around this garbage can
calling airspeeds and where in this fuselage
there's some distance left - you
don't see the firewall
or my hand from behind, by accident
the wrong sky.and the cloud has changed.
*
That worn down metal frame, its propeller
hiding once the engine starts - the wall
smelling from leather and fleece, the air
thinning, icing over and the snapshot
still missing - the crew last I heard
was hand to hand as if one wall
is always falling apart - I know they're there
leaning against the fuselage, against
the huge tail fin, against the wings
and fuel - even at this altitude
footsteps and a scarf whitens on the nail
on the missing snow. I almost open the window
or a thaw from nowhere widen, bring back
the grins and campsong, the hum
a bird might take from the frosted sill
from the sky thrown over its beak.
I don't dare make a sound and the nail
whose gunners are opening letters
tugging their gloves
relying on the camera's speed - the mistake
cost one his eyes and the plane falls back
goes pale and the missing letters from home
the slow, wide swing that's always winter
always the lingering pledge
as if this dark nail would remember for the dead
--senselessly circling, believes
it's still wailing
for the faces, for this bare and peeling wall.
*
Wherever I turn the air needs water
--the fires calling out - it will be hours
shredding silver foil, listening
for wind and drowning - this yard
as if its air has seasons, seeds
places to hide and the hose
smelling from oil and climb - this yard
covered with England, with mist :a net
--here are my hands! coated
from mulch and faces
and a shovel that won't leave the ground
buried as if some plane took root
and the sky the sun can't see
spreads into fumes, into fog
pinned under glass and spray - this yard
has a mask :the air chilled, moist
black - her cheeks won't rot, over and over
Lili Marlene, by the handfuls
and blisters - I sprinkle these tin strips
where sparks are needed now
close to the engines
underneath the lamplight
into the wind, louder, louder.
These poems are from Hands Collected 1949-1999 (2000) Trade Paperback. Limited Edition Hard cover. Pavement Saw Press.
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