Don’t Know Why There’s No Sun Up in the Sky Stormy Weather
The urge to see through things.
The day begins with a shimmer,
the blue square becomes a window, the box
a building. The vertical lines the final
page in an exercise book that’s closing over last
By the banks of the Mississippi, she sat down and
The rapture was over. Now a melding of comic motifs
with tragic. The knife on the balustrade did not bode
She lay down in a green sweater,
rested the back of her hand on her forehead.
The private acts become strange
when subjected to inquiry.
You get on a bus.
The bus takes off
from the base of a column.
There is singing somewhere. Then you’re sitting
on a mohair sofa. Smoking the last cigarette
that must last a lifetime. In a red dress
you answer a telephone
so sweetly, I.
The Question of Remains
The day she put on her glitz teardrops
and OHon lip-gloss,
ate an orange on an empty
and took the 8-train
to Grackleville, she met a man
climbing a narrow stairwell,
repeating to himself, This is all, this is all.
The music of a popular march played
in his head. This, he said, is all,
directing any further comment
to a longtime opposition blooming in his chest.
No, he said, to the offer
of a chaotic labyrinth of clouds,
devotion, rain, creatures from fables,
and opulent solitude.
Alone he entered the thicket
of empty situations, the conversation’s crude
muttering as he went, This is all -
Apprentice to death. Toxic grace.
Terrible and beautiful repose.
Dismay and murkiest waters.
The blighted morning.
The coordinate night.
The sad fact of the pink glow
of Grackleville’s late iridescence.