a modern lesson

his mother taught him math--
instead of using x, y and z
she used a pig, cow, and fly

only later did he understand
what she was showing him

his father was a pig
his mother a cow
he was the fly

unlike Isadora

you shall bear no photo of your dead
nor twice wound scarf
about your own broken neck

how a single cloud consumes the evening sky
loosens each heavenly body
from its assigned place

without intent you remove furniture
in nearly the same way
the mirror's tarnished light

ask yourself which is worse
losing one who goes unasked or one who chooses
to go on without you

a hanged poet
farewell friend written in blood—
both of these from lack of ink

a drawer of dry fountain pens
bottles of dust
irreparable stains of blue

whose desk is this anyway
whose has it always been—
this was never your home

a few more things

so many empty rings
all the gemstones gone
I find a few scattered in snow
under moonlight at 3am

I possess many magnifying glasses
an enormous pine cone
all this amplification of scale is wonderful
but I seek to diminish

the art I'm interested in—
miniature landscapes
painted by dead artists
a dirt road leading to a pond that isn't there anymore

all colors are muted
the light grown frail
the distant hills
have turned into shadows

more and more I write
about nothing
about only a few crows
rising from a scribble of branches

I undertake a journey
trying to discover some answer
I come back
with a only two pieces of turquoise

there's not much left—
small wooden canisters
where I collect fragments
of things I have broken
 
my wife tells me trivial things
keeps filling my pockets with stones
she's heaving me out
of this boat we've made together

even I'm getting sick of myself
knowing what I've seen
of my rare attempts—
trying to be human

counterproductive

They were going over
areas of study
I kept saying that's about the human body

the other day I forgot my hat
and when I found my hat I lost my gloves
and when I had my hat and gloves
a friend came running with my backpack
she said what are you thinking so much about?

her hair had caught in my beard
I said so
now there are many days between us

It is February and I am old
I have way too many notebooks
piling up in my room

my room is so dusty
I keep stepping on stones
I've collected them over the years
I bring everything in
I sleep in a forest

recent excavations

what remains
at the edge of town
where all the numbers are gone
from the only mailbox you’ve ever known

where no cigarette’s touched
for a thousand years
a handmade ashtray wrapped
in newspaper

and all that’s left
are holes in the carpet
where a reclining chair once sat
during the era of television

what do rose petals signify
especially now
the bush is just a few grey branches
and worn-down thorns

wheat pennies and peace dollars
end up in other places
scattered
among foreigners

why is it
everything you’ve ever made
or given
is now returned

do you know
going through shoeboxes of letters
where the others are
the ones you were supposed to save

what disparity
between something given
and a taken thing--
oh such absence of hands

let us lie down

how many times
have i asked the stars
without any need of answer

i am certain it is i
and not you
if blame is required

in the lawless winter night
clouds part
Arcturus claims the east

i pause in summer too
just to face some evening breeze--
there's also room enough for you

don't bother dividing
all these things that will outlast us
i've already surrendered my portion