Will S.
Tell us, lines, what we should say. Let the hand-
writing govern our movements. Each key can
lower the fingers gradually down. Com-
mentary goes rusty, awry. The house
must come clean. She sounds with garbled fields. A
seasonal grief she has, they say. But who
is she? The soup will be ready. Let us
hide out in the greasy parlance. A last
dash from germs. And none of it is ever
last, or lasting. We rein with these lines, bars
cross, disclose, open, our faces. There is
still one more line to fill, who is it for?
Dear, is it you, you reading, your line to
Within Arms
My hand has reached out for you this many
semblance of mornings. If we were asked
why we were underground, how to answer?
As the fault of your sadness falls. These some
blossoms may need adjusting. Testing the
waters for our lungs, I find sticks in them,
whole branches veritably on leave—per-
haps why the poems root underground. “When the
sea hits those stones they talk.” Occasional-
ly I love you more than the sky. How we
feel may tear this winter into spring and
if I don’t say anything something hap-
pens. But let me at least love you in the off
season by phone, we shall love each other
more than the elements, if I love you still more in the horizon
Love Winter Too
Dear Earth take in this fairy breath. Let it
seep into the mischievous crannies, the
rooks and rocks. What is behind the lily,
the foregone conclusion? If we look
at the interstices, the common lines be-
tween sheets of rain. I wanted to write in-
to your heart but the chambers are closed. What
freedom in the rain when memory is for
sale? What response to give a fairy? We
manage, nonetheless, a raucous cheer
with the Daily Show, a tempestuous
cloud of letters. Even with pomegran-
ate molasses to soften the duck: we
cannot change, the most we can do is see.
They dance the serrated edges of the leaves, the milky surface of the pond.