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Very close and very slow
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January 21, 2022
Now for a few days
Translucent tulips
Float across the lawns
Branches in blossom
Press against the house
Until it hums
The green-gold hours slide
Away, smooth as eels
Behind glass walls. And now
For someone, somewhere
Kneeling to plant, comes
The grace note, the first stroke.
* * *
As usual
I panned the faces
very close and very slow.
Yours
was almost as big as Spain
and just as beautiful,
with its dramatic ridges,
perfect mouth.
But you complained about your eyes.
You couldn't see, you said.
So I zoomed in on them:
one was milky,
the other solid silver
and suddenly it was up to me
to tell you that it didn't matter
to tell you,
as gently as I could,
that you were dead.
* * *
To my friend
who can no longer see
animals in the clouds
and takes it
as a sign of madness:
Hang on. Keep watch.
They must be gathering now
over the Pacific,
great, soft herds of elephants,
cirrous alligators
and horses being pulled apart
with no pain.
* * *
That summer
after you hanged yourself
without asking
anyone who loved you
if they could bear it
I found myself dragging hoses
watering every inch
of this huge lawn
over and over
day after perfect day
obsessed
unable to let one more thing
one single blade of grass
die.
* * *
Silently,
as pure,
as this rough linen tent
we share
you lean into me,
your work.
Your eyes shift,
then go blind
as you become
all touch
and exquisitely
detached
a Flemish angel
suspended in the light
above me
on mighty, multicoloured wings
* * *
I used to have fur
and dimensions
and handles
I got drunk at parties
and let people in
Now I know better
Now I'm a sphere
made of plates
of vanadium poems
I'm almost completed
Don't worry
someone inside me
has memorized your gestures, your face
But see how your hands
glance off me now
and how your words are filed
and worked on
and bolted into place
Translucent tulips
Float across the lawns
Branches in blossom
Press against the house
Until it hums
The green-gold hours slide
Away, smooth as eels
Behind glass walls. And now
For someone, somewhere
Kneeling to plant, comes
The grace note, the first stroke.
- Now for a Few Days, pg. 17
* * *
As usual
I panned the faces
very close and very slow.
Yours
was almost as big as Spain
and just as beautiful,
with its dramatic ridges,
perfect mouth.
But you complained about your eyes.
You couldn't see, you said.
So I zoomed in on them:
one was milky,
the other solid silver
and suddenly it was up to me
to tell you that it didn't matter
to tell you,
as gently as I could,
that you were dead.
- Very Close and Very Slow, pg. 23
* * *
To my friend
who can no longer see
animals in the clouds
and takes it
as a sign of madness:
Hang on. Keep watch.
They must be gathering now
over the Pacific,
great, soft herds of elephants,
cirrous alligators
and horses being pulled apart
with no pain.
- Plea, pg. 36
* * *
That summer
after you hanged yourself
without asking
anyone who loved you
if they could bear it
I found myself dragging hoses
watering every inch
of this huge lawn
over and over
day after perfect day
obsessed
unable to let one more thing
one single blade of grass
die.
- That Summer, pg. 44
* * *
Silently,
as pure,
as this rough linen tent
we share
you lean into me,
your work.
Your eyes shift,
then go blind
as you become
all touch
and exquisitely
detached
a Flemish angel
suspended in the light
above me
on mighty, multicoloured wings
- Gynecologist, pg. 53
* * *
I used to have fur
and dimensions
and handles
I got drunk at parties
and let people in
Now I know better
Now I'm a sphere
made of plates
of vanadium poems
I'm almost completed
Don't worry
someone inside me
has memorized your gestures, your face
But see how your hands
glance off me now
and how your words are filed
and worked on
and bolted into place
- I Used To Have Fur, pg. 67
Displaying 1 - 1 of 1 review