nationa poetry month
a poem a day in april
I could never show trees how I saw them
to my writing teachers. I showed them in some drawings
and in my yard, but I am not understood.
This tree has red tropical leaves, poorly pruned. That tree is a weed.
The tree my landlady thinks is a big bonsai is not, but I like the idea.
Clouds, too, apparently should escape my notice.
Is it for the same reason I shouldn't sing?
I track them always, like song; they not only distract me from commercial and social purposes, but also from any purpose.
after Martha Ronk's desert Geometries, in Florida
Mourning has been taught to us
"one blue bird / ... swoop(s)"
why am I sparkling?
I am naked.
Oh, I am married.
Jalousies, miniblinds, verticals
only impede the insistent foliage.
Many lizards, mangroves,
nothing careful as a note,
as temporary that way.
The horizon line is blurrier over sea than over rock
but over the Keys, behind condos --
are they elegaic? in the summer --
just an apparent line, meeting,
meeting as appearance, aperature.
Only elegies open this way.
We make no frame, either;
To leaves, to shells.
What if we don't remember, if nothing around us