Spectre
Behind you,
the weird grey graffiti of shadow.
You loom
above yourself, outside yourself.
It's called
projection--casting your darkness
onto objects,
landscapes, people. The good news?
Project
is also a noun, at least when the stress
is placed
on the first syllable. The word leans
its weight
forward, prods you on, invites you
to wear
whatever magical clothes allow the work
to happen.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Ships Set Out
Ships Set Out
Ships set out to cross oceans
with maps that ended. This was the edge
of the world with saltwater draped atop it,
unbounded as sky. Months of this,
years of this, the heading-toward-ness,
and still, the crew worked and ate
and slept and conversed. If nowhere else,
here was land, an island, a shore.
Ships set out to cross oceans
with maps that ended. This was the edge
of the world with saltwater draped atop it,
unbounded as sky. Months of this,
years of this, the heading-toward-ness,
and still, the crew worked and ate
and slept and conversed. If nowhere else,
here was land, an island, a shore.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Blot
Blot
Halfway through my drink, I notice the stain
that adorns the rim: small, smudged, pink.
All the traditional stand-ins for a lovely mouth
arrive. A petal, a bud, any part of a flower,
really. Coral. The pink underside of a seashell.
I settle on a pencil's garish eraser, which leaves
crumbs and streaks of itself to blot out error.
I press the napkin's edge to the lip print,
and clear what water and detergent had not.
Again, this becomes a glass dedicated to the task
of cleanly containing water and slivers of ice.
Some other woman painted her lips and drank,
quite recently. It is not alarming, this ongoing
exchange of mouths and glasses and water.
Halfway through my drink, I notice the stain
that adorns the rim: small, smudged, pink.
All the traditional stand-ins for a lovely mouth
arrive. A petal, a bud, any part of a flower,
really. Coral. The pink underside of a seashell.
I settle on a pencil's garish eraser, which leaves
crumbs and streaks of itself to blot out error.
I press the napkin's edge to the lip print,
and clear what water and detergent had not.
Again, this becomes a glass dedicated to the task
of cleanly containing water and slivers of ice.
Some other woman painted her lips and drank,
quite recently. It is not alarming, this ongoing
exchange of mouths and glasses and water.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
The Key
The Key
Here is the key to the city.
I know, it is heavy. Not the city,
the key. Not to mention gold
and beribboned. I'm assuming the gold
isn't just brass. Should I bite
it? Can't you taste gold to test it, bite
down to see if it puts up a fight
in your mouth, against your teeth? Fight
the urge to brandish the key
like a baseball bat. No, you cannot key
the Mayor's car, nor egg
its windshield, or knife the tires. Egg
me on to fit the key in a lock,
to turn it, a steering wheel that can unlock.
Here is the key to the city.
I know, it is heavy. Not the city,
the key. Not to mention gold
and beribboned. I'm assuming the gold
isn't just brass. Should I bite
it? Can't you taste gold to test it, bite
down to see if it puts up a fight
in your mouth, against your teeth? Fight
the urge to brandish the key
like a baseball bat. No, you cannot key
the Mayor's car, nor egg
its windshield, or knife the tires. Egg
me on to fit the key in a lock,
to turn it, a steering wheel that can unlock.
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