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.
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.