Tuesday, February 8, 1983
Tuesday, February 1, 1983
BOTTOM OF THE NINTH
BOTTOM OF THE NINTH
Our hearts catch an inside curve.
We try to sneak past each other
but the umpire yells foul play
and we are lost at the bottom of the ninth.
The player on third tries to steal home
but the bases are loaded and the score's
zero to zero in the moon's favor.
2/83
NIGHT HERON
NIGHT HERON
Night anchors on the dock
where the marsh heron's mask
is untouched by muddy water.
Only the slender bones of his legs
separate him from water and air.
2/83
Night anchors on the dock
where the marsh heron's mask
is untouched by muddy water.
Only the slender bones of his legs
separate him from water and air.
2/83
FALLEN ANGEL, drafts, no final efile
FALLEN
ANGEL
Lost
in the backwater
of
each other's thoughts,
we
felt the letting go
into
slow lees and eddies
until
the current caught it,
eased
it over venial stones,
closer
to the whirlpool
in
a slow gyrating dance.
Afraid
of this sinuous twist-
ing
of fleshéd days continuing,
we
fishtailed, sought distance, slid
our
attention into the river,
called
it horizon. We named it mirth,
named
it sin, grinned through
blackberry-stained
teeth against
the
skull-end of summer,
never
calling it by its rightful name
The
pelican daughters of King Lear
offered
little solace. Like the redwoods,
their
cliff-edged hearts beat once
a
century. They never danced bone-
blind
or drowned in the detritus
of
amniotic love after a coat-
hanger
fished night’s labored descend-
ent
from a crevice in the couch.
2/83
rev 7/94
another version
FALLEN ANGEL
Feel the mind let go of itself
in the slow backwaters until
the current catches it, hurtles
it over stones closer to the whirlpool
in a slow gyrating dance;
the bone blind love
joined in the debris of night.
The mask of attention slips.
Afraid of this nakedness,
our eyes seek distant horizons.
Our hands offer hollow comfort.
We mechanically grin and laugh
calling it mirth, calling it laughter,
never calling it by its rightful name.
We are lost in the alleyways and cities
of each other's thoughts.
2/83
see
7 POEM FRAGMENTS, no date, end of summer 83?
rev 7/94
another version
FALLEN ANGEL
Feel the mind let go of itself
in the slow backwaters until
the current catches it, hurtles
it over stones closer to the whirlpool
in a slow gyrating dance;
the bone blind love
joined in the debris of night.
The mask of attention slips.
Afraid of this nakedness,
our eyes seek distant horizons.
Our hands offer hollow comfort.
We mechanically grin and laugh
calling it mirth, calling it laughter,
never calling it by its rightful name.
We are lost in the alleyways and cities
of each other's thoughts.
2/83
see
7 POEM FRAGMENTS, no date, end of summer 83?
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