The Damp Shrine
Harvest comes early. In the
rehashed half-light
I heat my coffee and
hear something clicking,
something that wants to
show me where my feet
are pointing. It twists toward
me like a tuber, and even
traffic whistles around its
entangling vines.
Summer’s a doorknob
that just finished turning. I
long for the woman
who can hold the snakes. I
want the secret thing she
has. But this morning
the spotlight shines elsewhere,
and its flat circle falls onto
dreamers’ faces, drying
out the toys night
has left:
one star, half a ragged moon.
Folk Song
I like rolling to school in pajamas
a minute before deadline. I like to throw dry straw
around a feeding pen and watch big farm animals
arrive. This whole world’s
a canvas smeared with things I like.
We were standing on the corner of Sunset and Ivar
where the Rolling Stones recorded
“(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” and watching
The Shining’s Danny Lloyd and the ghost of Bobby Driscoll
circle the block on a hand-painted sound truck.
I must have tunnel vision—the world’s a terrible place,
but my eyes plead with me to love every moment I live
in it, although this is impossible;
I want to press grapes with my bare feet,
ride a red boat that leaves the sky.
But wisdom has no website.
The snake I came too late to charm
coiled around a tree in its mating dance.
The moon’s past full, cloud-shrouded, safe.
The river may be running full with fish
and flowers, and the moon I think just
tuned into an all night folk song program.
I continue writing my name on the page
with a picture of a murdered clown.
A wind must be rising—look at the leaves.
