Friday, May 21, 2010



And the fractured self and the gross vagaries of
public life, something arresting happens, pops my good
humor square in its beaming, seraphic face,
and I'm forced to consider my neighbor's lawnmower
chewing through his splotchy lawn like
institutional-grade cheese.  No need to meditate
on the engine's whine, its inescapable metaphoric allusiveness:
mob of enraged bees spoiling for a fight;
sewing machine you found in an alley
in a town whose name you can't recall,
just that you lugged it home, its cord
dragging behind you like a frayed tendon,
where in secret you plugged it in
and the thing sang, burning, before
it locked up inside itself, really dead, truly junk.
No need to hover over all this,
no need to extract from it
the flashy ore of unexamined significance,
but I just did, there is no taking back
this sort of thing, no recall to issue
when what you find is not what you want.
When what you wanted was five minutes alone with
the shadow of an ornamental cherry tree,
or sex first thing in the morning,
just beyond the ragged boundaries of sleep,
or a bowl of something good for you,
though your surprise borders on the seismic,
and, really, what you are eating
is your death, your awareness, at last, that it is aware of you.


Suzanne said...

So good to read you.

Melanie L Moro-Huber said...

"mob of enraged bees" very nice!
Thanks for this.

Lynne said...

I was just submerged in your poem, as usual, when I hit the brick wall of ". . . your death, your awareness, at last, that it is aware of you." Given that I have a milestone birthday coming up soon, that had an impact. I took notice! Thanks.

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Nancy Devine said...


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