Aught, no. 3 (1999)
In the Parking Lot
An arc oh dear is right a fragment of some circle.
Deaf somehow to anthems, my anthems, you sing to me, some,
anyway, instead sing me off to sleep with the heat you radiate
while my car is your car, my arm is your arm, my cheek is yours.
Take my voice inside you as you do and you define me so
(define means make limits or it sounds like something's okay).
You heard what I said to you on the phone that day;
more data needed to complete the theory, my dear. I meant
to say everywhere small birds seem to be fighting over fragments
and everywhere it seems there lie pieces of things fallen apart.
Completely broken still holds some significance for history.
This car stalls dead and cold in the middle of busy traffic.
(I swear I can't tell you anything about history beyond last night.)
Evening sky fills up with circles as you remember patterns.
Don't tell me it'd be a problem if it all fell apart, if I fell,
because every poet since writing began has sung of falling apart.
I realize I was lost the minute I knew I could understand you.
Some Carib not borne carob
Your long cola tongue to a coda
My skunk cabbage green
Oh, picture it, waist your life
- * -
And this trill cirrus where
His camelot carriage borne
Has sunk into
That aisle hear that language
- * -
I'm your home away from home
Open this shore and see my cirrus circus
Copyright © 1999, by the author. All rights
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