When I realized police were legionary
I didn’t change a thing. I made a place
for whatever had a salmon heart
and another for voices produced by
zero and one. I was used to being believed
and my car was a mad cradle.
I was used to speaking into the light
and wondering later
if they knew my errand anyway,
or if perhaps I was a cave
of piano strings in the world of men.
If I were a cave of piano strings in the world of men
I would be a ruinous habitat for bats.
I would be a good place to contemplate in
until I heard prehistory.
Then enlightenment, then sirens.
My untrained sympathetic vibrations
thundering. A flashlight
a spear in the pool.
Then I would really start to roar.
FROM THE SUITE OF OLD HABITS
And there is only this one season
of power lines abstracting away
from the field. Spring brides set off
some full of champagne,
some lights they see have the blink
of pity, if only
for the corresponding dark;
______________________ though I try
to lift you and displace
a hostile sun with you
I can’t run for long in all this light.
We say a-flat minor
is the most nostalgic key
no it is just waves
hand over hand
the nostalgia has spread
like a brass motif out
over a threshold of skin
a thousand times
than a newspaper
and what is a name
like Wanderlust for
if it merely describes
what we’re already