Poem 1
13 children book it down the road.
(a dead-end alley will do.)
the 1st child says, scary.
the 2nd child also says, scary.
the 3rd child also says, scary.
the 4th child also says, scary.
the 5th child also says, scary.
the 6th child also says, scary.
the 7th child also says, scary.
the 8th child also says, scary.
the 9th child also says, scary.
the 10th child also says, scary.
the 11th child says, scary.
the 12th child also says, scary.
the 13th child also says, scary.
among the 13, there are only scary and scared children.
(better not to introduce other conditions.)
say 1 is scary: fine.
say 2 are scary: fine.
say 2 are scared: fine.
say 1 is scared: fine.
(even a through-street would do.)
maybe 13 children don’t book it down the road: that’s fine too.
***
Poem 2
i become my father when my father falls asleep beside me and also i become my father’s father
but since my father as my father is still my father how is it that i am always becoming my father’s
father’s father’s……father and why must I leap over my father and why in the end must i live
playing the part of myself and my father and my father’s father and my father’s father’s father at
once?
***
Poem 5
in the sole clue that subtracts from the totality
with such wings and not to have flown away! with such large eyes and not to have seen
me!
that i fell once long ago before the eyes of the fat dwarf god.
can you distinguish viscera from a flooded barn?
***
Poem 10, Butterfly
in the torn wallpaper i see a dying butterfly. it’s a secret mouthpiece carrying messages to the
other world and back. one day in the middle of the mirror i see the dying butterfly in my beard.
its wings sag, and it eats what meager dew my exhalations deposit. if while smothering this
mouthpiece with my palm i happen to die, the butterfly, too, as if standing up after having been
sitting, will fly away. i never let word of this leak.
***
Poem 14
there’s a lawn in front of an old castle, and on that lawn i’ve placed my hat.
at the top of the castle i tied a heavy stone to my memory and hurled it as far as i could.
history’s mourning retracing its arc. at the foot of the castle was a beggar, standing like a totem
pole next to my hat. he stands at the foot of the castle, but above me. the specter of unified
history, perhaps? the depths of my hat face the open air and call out to the desperate sky. then
suddenly the beggar, evidently trembling, bends down to toss a stone in my hat. i’ve already
fainted. i can see the routes the heart takes to move into the skull. an icy hand finds my
forehead. an icy handprint has been branded on my forehead and will take a long time to fade.
