Stretch

15 brown Victorian vases
lined up one afternoon
years before we met.
You asked for a motive
and I said,
causality is irrelevant
in poetry, I make
nations out of
hopeful green stuff
tire irons wait
their turn a catastrophe
E.D.'s quick calamity
a photograph of the aftermath
teaches me one way off the wall
you look at the same picture
and see my breath in roses
a wound watch a word
written is not the same word spoken
there are mines everywhere
we have to be careful but we aren't
sure why.

This isn't over.

After Bobby--

Poets
for Robert Dana

A bombed oration tickled me.
Clinked flutes doled out
pointed flirtations.
A contour of life, poetry,
something to shade a body in,
or certainly to illuminate
an otherwise dusty path.
We yowl into it, wait for our own voice.
We chisel ourselves
to death.
We write our way into a shaky grace.
We watch, we listen, we wait in
the corner of a gorgeous room.

ER

3.

I answered the phone
experienced deja vu
watched a squirrel chew
felt embarrassed
investigated you
listened to my name being spoken
held my breath
read a paragraph about forgivness
counted church bells
thought about strangers
rested my arm on a comforter
looked out a window
wanted you
saw the air's infinite allowances
asked for tea
braced my body
against no small impulses.

For You:

Hinge

Love is nothing on this earth
but a way to translate
my raised fists, drawn arrows
fitful tears, taut trigger
weak stomach, puffed pride
gaunt patience into the hushed
mouth that waits for you.

ER

My Latest Effort:

Age

Our coarse intentionality
weakened when the fireworks
reflect on the resting home
windows, my green explosion
reflects our best efforts
at youth--bent over a plastic
cafeteria tray, eating cold
peas, wheeled out of their
rooms to reflect on your red
explosion. Every time I look up
the gunpowder gets in my eyes.

ER