full moon in four days

full moon in four days

for Jose

you sent the rain

            into the tide

                        of wind you sent it

                                    into the rake-

                                                furrows pulling

                                                            back the sea.

They were old

            friends

                        the rain

                                    and

                                                the

                                                            sea

Thunder and flash

            are passionate

                        gatherings, a canopy

                                    of cordite and crack

                                                as though who’s going

                                                            to war has returned

to break the host

            of mass

                        in two: you

                                    high in

                                                the sky

                                                            saturated with the

                                                                                    persuasive rain, a train

of cloud rolling

            roiling derailing

                        far enough up

                                    the tracks that

                                                ocean and rain

                                                            salt and plain

                                                                        comingle

until time

            and heat pull

                        them up from

                                    their watery bed

                                                and change them

                                                            completely, the way

                                                                        the war trampled living

who still

            look in the mirror

                        after the battle

                                    knowing it’s not

                                                them returning

                                                            but something

                                                                        else entirely

because of the rain

            and that salt

                        that brine

                                    of road and sky

                                                and foam skeining

                                                                        together

palms wide

            open hello after all

                        this strange time

                                    friends, always now

                                                            friends.

Litter

Litter              

                        Passion is work

            that retrieves us,

lost stitches.  It makes a pattern of us

it fastens us

to sturdier stuff

no doubt.

                        Jorie Grahm

                        “I Watched a Snake”

Litter we let lie litter we tear

and crumble and throw

madly away tight rumple of

a ball or toss nonchalant and all

the care of the mistake is hidden

in one of those folds, it’s spit

without spitting it’s not

the work alone we grind our jaw

on but those hands sweeping

like a broom that buckle us

from behind the ambush we swear

like all the profoundly addicted

we swear we knew we did we knew

shit the disguise was so like

that partridge in the trees we’d walk

right by whistling barrels eye ball-

to-eye ball- shells tight as hibernating

snails breach open safe as sky

and after long after the plastic frown

like that mouth the hull tip stepped on

brass head like any brass

going green already after it’s ejected

before it hits the moss

before even it’s clutter telling the whole

world the trajectory

and not one single flat fuck give a dam

the blood’s already down the left

side of the crag where the bird spooked

and flew shock boom flew

and the trigger is natural after the breach

is slipped to its lip it’s natural

it all fires after that and just as natural

I suppose after what’s hit goes down

and bleeds and sometimes moans

and if the hunter cares he’ll dangle off

that crag and grope a minute and hope

and hope the bird although furiously dying

is waiting and there’s little wind 

mother's day moon

mother’s day May 10

moon:

I’d intended to see you through

through the blue bottle I’d intended

but see the tree has turned out

its leaves see in the last few days

those abundant fists like fists of

infants have been coaxed open

and from here from this window

the wide open hands have become

your succor your care-

giver caresser and if the distance

could be bridged if (because listen

the neck's most vulnerable to get to 
the wine

we must 
pull 
the cork)

that’s even sensual,that turning

turning

turning

of the screw until it’s all

pulled roots like ooze’s

perfume ok  maybe not ooze but I’d come

all this way to see you through

and it was too late  you had

your drape you had this

maple this abundant canopy and even

moving below it half of you

is gone and the other half is gone

to haze and the blur

is this blue bottle when the lens

sees only green and delight

its sites 
and only through

coaxing only through focusing

on the neck and waist and hip

alone the whole tree out

of the picture is it pure enough

and only I and now you

of course
know

know 
what’s behind it all

New England Dervish

New England Dervish

            Oh

let it touch you…

Nothing will let you go.

We call it blossoming—

the spirit breaks from you and you remain.

                                    “Tennessee June”

                                    Jorie Grahm

It’s only to be imagined now in the museum

of dust and rows and rows of chairs men on

one side women on the other and how their quiet settled

like a nursing baby latched on for the very first time

becomes the sweet surprise and the stream (if it had been anything

else would have furrowed their cheeks) down the neck

to those still waxy wrinkles oh it was like that and how

it was all so quiet and after all that labor and new air lets out

the first real howl (that one after the slap was protest) but now

this this it’s a seizure a spasm all electrode joy jolt

and if she could she would rip out

of all that suddenly confining grasp and take to the center

and open every drawer in the highboy of her heart.

The room positively glowed with her up on that hill—see:

at the bottom of it all local boys would gather and slap

and shove and want a little but they know they know its not Dawn

Summers combing her hair in the winter window they sometimes

glimpse when they’re finished bedding down

the livestock and she’s all hair and nipple no its not her it’s pure

joy its pure possession and they shake after their long while silent they erupt

maybe first their toes maybe then it wicks up their calves and they can’t

do anything but cut that rug in the middle of the whole congregation

between all their celibate brothers and celibate sisters and take their chances

and whirl and whirl and whirl the dervishes of New England