The Goldfish and the Orange tree

Sight is not truth
from here I see
only so much
yet through the
green cumuluos
and
what could be
coral shells
I gleen
your wistful soul
your tender need
outstreched
and steady
donating to me
something central

I imagine
your water green.
and that mine looks green also
outside of
the immediate
binocular
focus

Revision of group surrealism poems.

Same beginning, different end.

Someone is running towards you,
Moving through clouds that howl for midnight,

Stretching through the ethers and
gracelessly undoing
a memory impossibly crowded and heavy-lidded.

Their fingers grasping at Chance and Time,
flutter to soothe the tender wounds,
and clear the hallways
with their strangeness and light.

Try not to turn from the new season.

Oh, clumsiness of this body!
The marrow witty and blushing,
murmurs,
“There is no cure like company”,
and this is true.



Werther’s Originals

I do not know who he is,
But I know him as the tongue knows the teeth.
He takes up the two seats across me,
an ancient Condor of a man,
odd and kingly,
chewing on a toffee,
rolling the leftover shiny wrapper into a ball with parchment hands.
He catches me in the glass reflection,
as the train gallops through a tunnel,
and he nods.

Poetry 205

I will be posting some of the work from my poetry class up here, so, beware, I guess.

Poem based on the first line from John Ashbery's "At North Farm".

"Someone, somewhere, is traveling furiously toward you,"

Cupping a pocketful of small invertebrates,
In their long, finely-boned fingers
That pull at a visor
And scratch the chest, secretly.

They are not tired in the least,
Traveling at such speeds.

The random lefts, and rights,
The things so quickly breaking apart,

Propelling the cuticles, the clavicle,
the millions of miles of memories
Forward,
To the unraveling,
And the arrival.