Plain American Language

I cut a sliver/of WC William's finger
and placed it inside/my philosophy...

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

and this is the last of my Chilean poems, it seems...


Afternoon, it's raining in Valdivia:
crooked lampshade; small bottles & vases;
a cold, humid, fresh air; gusts
dusting more rain on the roof
like loose tin pellets; a field;
messy, scattered backyard:
wet coal, droplets rippling the tidepool
inside the grill; a laundry basket
with three bowls: soil, plants (herbs?)
taking in a fair share of drink
(later, when spring comes, a lunch
of sun); chattering birds. Two guitars;
silent wooden seagulls; stained glass
and more wind; the open door
trying like rain to close itself
and making the house shudder;
stone leaf pedestal; dozens
of paintings; cabinet with sun and moon.

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