The period from November until January
poem for Maria Berry
is deer season.
which means. it’s time.
to dress up. as buildings
and hide behind each other.
time to cover. the lake.
with sheet music. and then.
watch it soak through.
become itself again. but.
with Shubert at the bottom.
I like to say. the word. Year.
over and faster until. I sound
like an engine. like a spinning
wilderness. the deer are.
everywhere just now.
at the window. in our clothes.
drinking from the poems. of men
in their fifties. the trick.
is to be. quieter.
than the letter F.
to be still. as a calendar
if you have. food. you should eat it.
if you have. a gun. you should.
load it with candy. leave it.
in the grass. the ants will
thank you. in their copious.
halls. in their antlore.
we are all houses for someone.
Schubert believed. everyone.
lived inside Beethoven. he
was half right. half of us.
only come out at night.
only drink. from our own.
cupped hands. the other.
half. are invisible. against
the trees.
On Beginning to Feel It
You don’t know you’re drunk
until you miss something; a beat,
a word, a face. Today my computer
wants proof I’m not a robot.
The ground falls away just a little
with each step. Or you sit down
too quickly. I’m trying to remember
the name of my first pet. I know
a man who plays blues records
backwards to make his lover come
home. Only a kind of innocence
has returned. And an old milk cow.
It’s a good idea to mark your cup
with a pen, a bent straw, maybe
a flower from the table. That way
there’s no confusion, no red house
over yonder. What secret question
could you possibly ask yourself
to fool an imposter? To be bathed
in light is half the universe. I once
loved a poet who refused to leave
the house. It got so bad, I began
to write, too. Dark is the night, cold
is every pixel of the night. Drink ‘til
you can’t tell you’re drinking, sing
the chorus early. My dog’s first name
was Doctor. That’s all I can bare
to say.
To Whom It May Disturb
All these envelopes on the table, each
with another one inside, we could
use them to send love poems instead
of money, how easy it would be. Dear
Telephone Co., You are a field of blue
flowers waving down the night and I
am full of stars. Dear Water & Power,
My heart is your lightning farm,
kiss me. Dear California Gas, Do you
think of me when the forest burns,
because I think of you and touch
my cold stove. If we were steadfast,
surely someone would answer in kind.
They might even come to our door,
a lonely clerk or bookkeeper, whoever
reads the mail, standing on the porch
with flowers or a suitcase. We could
watch from upstairs and cry and cry.
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