Monday, March 22, 1982

EQUINOX, AFTER THE WEDDING

EQUINOX, AFTER THE WEDDING

All night long tiny tipsy men
tiptoe past my fridge.
As they walk by
they ask me
"Are you ready yet?"
"No," I tell them.
There must be eight of them
crowded into my kitchen by now
celebrating the equinox.
My cabin is populated by dwarves
stacking up like plates,
they are breaking the crockery
with their clumsy bodies.
Determined to stop this nonsense,
I roll out of bed
holding my hangover in both hands
and vow never to drink again.

Spring Equinox 1982
added 2/2017

The white wool of sleep

The white wool of sleep

The white wool of sleep
is knitted with the purple pollen
of opium poppies 

The ringing sound you hear
emanating from clouds
is made by someone
drinking the detail out of the sky
with their eyes
as lovers look deep
into one another's eyes
and all is voided.

3/22/82? 81?
sounds like an in class poem
added/2/2017

Wednesday, March 10, 1982

THE BOAT PEOPLE


THE BOAT PEOPLE

Perched on a net, a lone cat
gazes down into the water, 
His attention caught by a fish. 
His sungold eyes darken 
As he yawns and pulls his tail in close.

Mothers prepare fish in charcoal braziers
While thre fishermen cast out their nets.
The murky river is pierced by their lanterns. 
Attracted by the light, schools of fish 
surface into the nets.

Boats on the Nai kong Delta float 
like memories of shadow after rain.
Women spend entire lives 
gazing into the tumid depths of the river

And their children are conceived
in the incunabula, the boat-cradle.
Babies learn to walk on the decks of boats 
never knowing the feel of dirt 
or grass beneath their feet.

Only in death do they learn the feel of river bottoms —
How the contour of river banks hems them in.
Only then do they learn to furrow the fine silt
through their fingers and toes.
In the distance, sumi-ink hills bleed into the water
hunker down, like cats at dusk.

3/10/82
minor revision
added 2/2017
i think it was in class writing