Tuesday, May 21, 2013


V. (continued)

May 21

And on that island
all shared their mistakes
with one another, volubly,
humbly, through clenched teeth.

no one thought of snacks, I can assure you

if you would, please hit the dimmer switch

there's space in this charade for one mishap

“I don't know why,” he said,
“but sometimes love overflows me
when I think of that salad dressing
and the chairs on the porch
and the orange light
striking the digital clock.”

all our tubs were plumb, that’s all I know

tree houses invited birds to share their songs

replenished shadows strategically arranged

We're approaching the planet
Meltdown, and everyone in the room
knows this is probably the final issue.
We haven't the wit to divide
and conquer any more.
And no handouts from famous angels
or heirs apparent.  Strike
the set, get me Make Up.

the bicycle at the library signaled her presence

don’t bother with dinner—I’m eating Indian

remember sun on flat rocks at Schoodic Point?

When we return for another summer,
we'll find that tempests
still make things happen; we'll
be relieved we saved our shoes
from worse fates, squelch
the sudden nostalgia
for tennis balls and thermometers,
and adjust to the moods of a bad cat.

grab the lucky charm affixed to the mirror

Dr. Reznikoff, we’re assured, sails next week

all the eager children mob the reference desk

Hirsute legions have asserted
the right to bare body parts
usually kept concealed, and why not?
What's yours is mine and what's mine
is theirs too, and vice versa.
The captain hadn't yet finished
with the final reckoning
but at least the storm abated
or fell short, while we drew
our meager salary and sought
higher ground.  Nest
of cormorants.

fitfully original, we capsized in the rapids

in the fitful rapids, we capsized originally

the original cap size was rapidly fitted

I'll try to circle back
when I can.  I hope those tapes
aren’t covered with dust
like an ancestor's prosthetic limb.
A charcoal menagerie in the caves
should count for something, like
iron tables outside the market
where, it seems, only women
have leave to sit.  Printed
reminders conceal the real thing,
peeling from the rafters like
a dropped pocket onto the heads
of strategists from Mahwah,
proficient in hieroglyphs
of four milliseconds, but not
the resonant and occult gesture.

Introduce me.  Say I was with you.

©Donald Brown 2010/2013

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