A snail pulls
Long at its home
Like Bogie at
Before his line:
A desultory trailer
Posted August 30, 2007.
Something you don’t see in a Christmas pageant: the slaughter of the innocents. But there it is, in the middle of Matthew’s account.
Matthew’s baby Jesus is peripatetic, dodging bullets & fulfilling scripture. “Out of Egypt have I called my son.” “He shall be called a Nazarene.”
Luke: baby Jesus with the lambs. Matthew: baby Jesus on the lam.
Across from the school, a cemetery. Twenty-six stockings hang there tonight.
1:5 Poets in their ecstasy don’t channel poems. Instead, poems in their lassitude channel-surf poets.
1:6 Poets think of parted lips, splayed legs. But the urge to write, the fillip, is really for the propagation of poetry. Poems understand this.
1:7 A poem is domestic, farouche. There’s nothing wild about a poem, even one through Whitman or Thomas. Dickinson, a savage, understood this.
The orthography of noon: the A in apex.
Noon: sin cos sun.
Once each year in the tropics, noon picks you out of a lineup of billions. I’m on the lam, north of Cancer.
Smirk at noon’s slight slant? The sun’ll cure the Tropic of Cancer and smoke you out.
Don’t be cocksure on account of noonshine’s slight slant. Nothing crows at noon’s bright still.