Friday, April 26, 2013

Clouds, Holy Water, Butter

How do we know when You are speaking to us?
You are something holy,
You keep us up at night.

I hang on your arms like a clingy dancer
apologizing repulsively -
I'm sorry.

This might be indigestion
or a league of angels outside my window,
faces turned full toward me like moons,
pale deer.

           Once I ran, I run, I wanderlust
I wait to be anesthetized. I ring my hands
or swish around in pantaloons, ripening
for the orphanage.


e = yes.


Come by here and walk with me among the herbs
like some sophisticated gentleman,
discriminating lavender from lavender
who walks upstairs in slippers
and doesn't use the banister or a pool clad cape. A bag of sand.

Dementia. I will always be a helpless pea-weed, somewhere sending tendrils
out to the patronizing son. Take what I can get. Lick up
a frozen drop azalea, rhododendron.

Rubber buy, rubber buy beads. Rubber buy beads and coats. Old peat coats. Nanny goats
and sleep.

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