He built the house -- peyote dreams down
my xylophone spine. Donít insist solid
with vanityís fear, like when you arrive
at whispered thought for its weight.
Honest to god, if you serenade me,
eyes meekly eating, perhaps I just donít
feed the bird. Iím lost again SARDINES
wringing her hands, delicate and raw
over your bodyís braille, doe-startled
by the side of the road. In the round
tones of a clarinet, she catches my scent
and you rise to stir on the tip of my tongue.
The very shape of her, poor first poet,
a sonnet wrapped tight in impossibilities.
Old Fashioned Simmering
We live in a world of fish and roses,
saxophones, daisies, frogs and tureens;
each an icon our eyesight imposes
upon our emotions, snug like sardines.
This poetry world upon our sardines
ladles emotions like simmering soup;
reduces to thought and sets of fourteens
wild images, metrophobia boop.
Our thoughts in these words a dizzying loop
of love, of love, they hold back our sense in
order to order this chaos of love,
hear loveliest laughter, in things breaking down.
When words are complete -- when are words complete? --
we skip back through thought, to feeling, to soup.