Back when all angels were male,
the hammer was the first
perfect androgyne.
Mounted on a pegboard,
it still looks almost aerodynamic,
poor thing.
This is no claw, but a pair of legs
strong enough between them
to give birth to nails.
Or rails that forgot to run parallel,
converging on a vanishing point
that’s much too close:
the train’s stuck in station
& the hammer keeps trying to hop
on its one flat foot.
the birth of a pear
out of each anthem
in the park
where all
celebrate the night
with fireworks
my summer suit
is a fine flowered vest
red as an owl at dinner
green like a little park
full of dust and wind
now and then a dribbling rain
and so many aches
I am forced to take
and hug
in the atelier of the mouth
I serve the ear
it shall ring
for some time to come
and me dancing with any
little trouble
a mouth on you
like a clock at a bad dinner
tell me pretty stories
about arson
preach to me a sermon
on holy war
a paper doll
is married
to an evil king
an old play
acted only
by the young
I roll the whole morning
into a soup
backwater
to whitewater
what I have is almost as much
as I desire
night comes at noon
when I expected business
but I am made captain
of the ship of loss
so at least I shall get
a little money by it
at my hut in the woods
the ax and I
try peace
rest against the plaster
resolve to go dancing
tomorrow
no use for the infinite?
come dwell
in a hole
and dance with me
my yes and
my no
after dinner and a play
and mad love
who to be
whom to happen to
Zen in new clothes
are we content
my full hands find
something more
bigger than my eyes
the light in my eyes