Sunday, April 12, 2015
This house & all the things in it.
Do I repeat myself? Very well, then,
I repeat myself. I am small. I contain platitudes.
Before the detritus is wiped off the tablecloth,
before we're elbows-deep in a preponderance
of potting soil, to stop & reflect on what
this trash means is a necessary balm against
what fades. Archie wrote the "great spiritual poem"
of our time
& I hover over dumpsters looking for a perfect
crime to take home & care for as my own.
This house, quite obviously, needs renewal
but I am no carpenter. Jets overhead
can't see us in the slate-pathed backyard
with its birdhouses & curios & withering
tulips. Sometimes I feel I'm in Cordoba
but I have no idea what that means.
Having gotten by. Having made a mask.
Having spotted eagles chasing ospreys.
Having retired to the concrete stoop.
The derivative of nothing is still nothing.
& every line I write is still a bird.