Mar 24, 2006


Not-yet-spring blooms
as the Cyrillic at Brighton

Beach, before
the quiet sea, humped

by freighters & on the street
all is twitching stillness

until cab wheels
burst a water bottle.

Our noble star
emits the colors of the zodiac,

speaking to the ground,
tell me

where the carriage horses go
at night, divorced

at last from their nameless
burden. Their eyes atticsfull

of pine needles, light
that shifts through canopies.

All must take it easy sometime:
the busy moths, shiftless

everyone. Cut
bait & sit on a milk crate,

take it easy--the black boats
lumber through the salt,

the air distracts
hammerers of nails, let all subside

to wanton artifice.

The early room & the stink
of the paint, the papers.

a little lamp of brass
a little monk made of glass.

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