three poems: green throat of the arbor

the patient executor of the catastrophe snips

and kneeling lays the long thistles on a blue tarpaulin

they excavate the low atmosphere like leonid meteors

until the center is full they are a mane of fire in the air of labor

the light shock of thistles yields to a sheared hillock

set in the landscape like an apollonian temple for tidy

pilgrimage ornamental grunt work in order’s image

his old datsun pickup parked precisely in a live oak’s shade

my admiration is helpless his tools his technique of erasure

at once practiced futurist high attic and surreal such certainty

his hide gloved inexorable strength a one man pogrom against

my leonine cousins the thistles too drop unmurdered seeds of praise

~

they tell each other when they travel of never destinations

do you remember she asked the orchard of the prime minister

on his saint’s day we picnicked in a caesura of pear trees

with his bitter windfall of sons no he replies do you remember

the city elastic as spit from bridges above it no the weather factory

town the sleet smelt no I’m sorry to go through customs we crawled

across the steel surface of seawater no do you no the bog at pig holler

no where the steam from the geyser cuckooed the clocks no

our friend meander’s house train c’mon we cooked s’mores on the boiler

no each claim countered with forgetfulness until they arrive muss the hotel room oh

you mean prime minister ginwheel why I just found his card his youngest has married

~

“O how could I be so calm
When she rose up to depart?”

mayflies into midgenight

a gummy gossamer agitation

a day of this less

the tongue muscle of the mud

labial and salivac waters

immolant rot of insect wings

green throat of the arbor

love lay taut beneath desire

silent as catgut

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