Two Poems by Rustin Larson

North of Oxford

.Lawn Ornament.Buddha, seated with four disciples, looks like my grandmother, same squarish face and long earlobes, same hairdo, topknot she’d putunder a net before she went to work at the egg plant, the disassembly line, so to speak, white ovals conveyed for candling and thenpowdering for armed forces overseas. After work she’d slip on Buddha’s housecoat– a few ocher stripes, some emblems of orchids– shewould drink her tea, silently, ceremoniously, the center of a circle of ghosts..Carroll Street.in Brooklyn is probably still there, as familiar to millions as Ingersoll is to me. The fall turns to parchment. Every leaf is blank. Every leafhas something written on it, held under a slanted evening light. In a slanted evening light in Brooklyn someone sips Irish Creme from asnifter and lays down a pair of hearts. Someone shoots the moon; another person is sure she has…

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