Women is...: Verité


sometimes act of taking time, to create a poem--and, to read one--- contradiction of the world, which, possibly, would prefer, that we were turned away our attention from a language. With all of potential for connection us with more deep silence, greater history, internal landscape, no surprise writes it and read, possibly, would seem like threatenings gestures. I want, that limning invited anybody slowly downward, to value beauty, and promisingly, to find sense of surprise in reserve.

The first line is the camera’s aperture.
If you find beauty it will rise
from the half-moon petals
strewn on the nightstand
or the shirt tossed
over the radiator.
The shirt
reminds you of spring in a country
with galvanized tubs
and spider web clotheslines
turning in the breeze*
the wrong subtitled film.
What I speak has nothing
to do with love. There is no
galaxy. A star is not plural.
The couple smokes
at the foot of the bed.
Outside, a car runs out of gas
but coasts another mile
on ghostly fumes. The heart
keeps traveling past fenceposts,
pushing luck after goodbye.