A snail pulls
Long at its home
Like Bogie at
Before his line:
A desultory trailer
Posted August 30, 2007.
At my aunt’s funeral, my uncle called my name. That was all.
It was spring when she died. My uncle lived to not see another spring summer fall, to not open a blind. We buried him in the cold.
The silver cord, the golden bowl, the long home. The cord slips, the bowl cracks, the long home.
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.