Plain American Language

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

Thursday, October 21, 2010

This glass is alone underneath
my table, my checkerboard where
once or many times I played with
my great-uncle that never was old
until he died. Whether it is heat
or something else that forms it,
an immensely chip-able object,
had I strength and a towel
I would think, later, to break it
as if the hand were street and glass an echo,
clink of song bringing itself back
hard bits and pieces, immense sleepless sound.

As I Have Said Over and Over Again, Love is an Ocher-Red Leaf

Let me remind you of my hands, which have not felt love
in so long they ache of tendinitis
that strengthening will not help
whose ligaments are not dancing
little finger that once spliced over
a body that moved in time Tell me
time, track backwards an old
twist of words--what is motion,
something foolish, a wrist
so half-heartedly broken
and sprained in five places
while ash bristles the side of the chimney.
Love, I am underneath you, I am
as if blessed by you. Tell me
time, what roundness must
I feel in order to be like
water, clear and settled in the glass, how
tenderly it wobbles and nuzzles
toward the edge, tipping, undulating
being shaped by the hard edges
of a terribly breakable thing.