Wednesday, December 26, 2012

26 diciembre 2012

lemon-sized hail destroys 85 houses in Salta: cement/asbestos roofs
cattle industry stages a one-day strike, bankers to strike at noon

what’s a strike during the last week of December when no one works anyway?

Her mother in a hospital bed scares her
(from a yard away she stares at 
the angle articulated, her mother taped & tubed
spotting the plush monkey, she says, For me?
watches the nurse ask about her
mother's pain, sits on the bed beside her mother's sheet-
draped knee, is petted, stroked, soothed
says, after 15 minutes, Go home now, so we went)

Barbara Guest [photo by Judy Dater]

Today the children lived in syllables pushing rafts
pushing themselves, the clime of heads on them the sun . . .

Loss gropes toward its vase. Etching the way.
Driving horses around the Etruscan rim . . .

Time calls hoarsely for sorbets and gestures
of sparrow . . .

throat against darkness, we say a nose
examines with dignity, gives thrust
the painter uses the nose like a trowel . . .

I thought of the white poem I had written whose face
might even now be speckled with dust, and the white pen
used to which I attached the poem’s name, “The White Pen.”
Surely among the belongings in the kit where the shoe polish
was kept there might be my “White Pen” with cream in its
nostrils . . .

Hatching away in her nuttery . . .

morning finally announced itself in the shape of over-
head spinning and clumping she resolved to go into
Zurich even if it meant encountering slipshod vowels all
the way . . .

The road branched and ricocheted. The noise of pebbles
pinched her ears.

Birds sing difficult
songs no other birds can sing. The spindle
whirls and gossamer appears. Faces stare . . .

Let that embrace last on the rim of the inkstand . . .

the homespun
logic of our twosomeness, a fabric time
will displace the threads, a shrivel here,
there a stain, the rotting commences like lanes
of traffic hurtling into air as the sun comes down . . .

Seeking the chute or drifting
these rafts hourless in the breathing
admire the quarter hour
brave sofas surround . . .

A child entered the room
wearing a clock costume . . .

"In the flashes of identity between subject and object lie the nature of genius. And any attempt to codify such flashes is but an academic pastime." [Jules Laforgue]

Roan stained, Mike painted, I weeded; Jane & Kent returned the plastic
chairs on their way to pay tickets received 11 months post-infraction

for proof, photos of his truck entering & leaving a zona urbana at 100+ kph
how many more might be pending; half-price if paid within 5 days

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