because they do not know

in the dead hours of night
you disassemble a piano

each shaped piece of wood a lever
the clutter of a pile of keys

beneath 87 and 88 a dime from ‘18
a bingo chip—  translucent red

the hidden edges of 63 through 75
stained from communion wine in ‘94

due to the chaotic situation
no consensus on the number

hammer 46
broken at the shaft

nearly lost
recovered from a potted plant

irreparably untunable
the piano cost a 100 dollars

to lay your fingers on the keys
and watch the hammers strike

for weeks you hear the silenced note
for years the ghosts beneath the bridge

like bamboo bells

once we watched the sunrise
through leaded window-glass

ate pheasant using silverware
inherited from aunts

now a spider waits for moths
among the toppled bricks

hollow husks of insects
rattle in the sills

harvest

i will walk across a field
with this basket i have made
the basket i was given
still some seeds to sew
empty basket made of woven thorns
i will walk across a field
dig among the roots
onions and potatoes
radishes
odor of dirt
how many years
beneath fingernails of hope
how white teeth gleam in sun

beneath my bed

a cigar box
i don't know what to do with
a volunteer firefighter badge
a 10 year pin from Harbison Walker
a 25 year pin

he used to give us pennies
flattened by 30 ton cars

all the jack knives bought as presents
now a tin of ground-down blades
all the watches arrested at random hours
what can they say of that hollow in time
all the Chinese money he brought back from WW II
unrolling across the floor

overtime

just solve this one last problem 
before going home for the evening... 

you round a corner
startle a thousand cowbirds

they lift into the sinking sunlight
their shadows climb a yellowed wall

you chase after them
running amidst their frenzy

you can't stop

if you do
you'll plummet to your death 

solitary

a small square hole
brilliant with light

     you are given what you are given
     the rest you take
     or leave alone
     abandon by the side of a road
     in some other country
     this place is not your own

sometimes they let you speak
other times they close the small square door

     you're left with what you can't abandon
     a few useless stones 
     from places you can never go back to
     a garden of poppies
     gone to seed
     crepe-paper petals
     a leather-bound bible reeking of incense
     you cannot mask the smell of death
     the raised scar on her sternum
     she addresses you as Jesus
     handfuls of dirt
     dislodged from a world of untruth
     two worn shillings covering eyes

the door opens
small square hole full of bright light

     her fingers perched upon the edge
     carmine color of lipstick
     mouthing inaudible words
     rounded edge of jaw
     what can you trade
     for the concept of time
     face buried in wind
     same old story
     woman and man
     how a glance lasts an instant
     you raise your head to speak

the small square door closes again

     a three tined fork slides off a white napkin
     rattles across a checkerboard floor
     a purple blouse
     her pulled-back hair
     consternation behind sunglasses
     somewhere a bent candle still burns
     a downpour washes away trash in Paris streets
     her swelled nipples
     cotton camisole
     everything ends at the ocean
     and its odor of salt
     how afternoon sun dries your face
     many years cannot kill the taste

a diffuse glow
through the small square hole

     she tells you to come to the house tonight
     asks you to bring your shoebox of moths
     she wants you to shake the dust from their wings
     rain makes a new kind of silence
     caught up in the heights of pines
     dew at 3am
     the whole night sky is yours alone
     long ago you named all the phenomena
     surrendered their wonder
     now you seek it through others eyes
     that's why they still keep you around
     you've learned to give them
     nearly everything they want