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The receptionist, Esther, was in a bad mood, and complaining to the dental hygienist about a string of canceled appointments. “Why can’t people just let us know if they’re not coming in?” she asked. “We only ask for twenty-four hours’ notice: it’s not that hard. I’m just trying to plan a day here, people.”
I wouldn’t know, but when I imagine being there in the roomwith the real thing, its many glowing painted sections are nearlyweightless, and they float, silent, barely held together by their frames,and in the darkness, in my head, they fold slightly, hinged wingsthat make me want to go in them, walk the green field, be amongthe crowd of devotees—which I am not, not Christian,
Can I interest anyone in the newspaper of my spirit? Feathers,today, it’s mostly feathers—once again these field reports from the interiorhave failed to document the wildlife rattling around in me,goings-on lost to the usual grammars of a Monday crowded with anxious thoughts. Nevertheless, as the drive-thru line at Wendy’s winds out from the parking lot, and drivers mug
After Robert Creeley Bitten night spilling sharps. Lowing clouds eye the Pinelawns of dead influences to me. I’ll never live in a house with a woman who writes under an uneasingly settling sun. Contrapuntal outruns cannons. Darkness thousand rounds us to bed. Love for one all my rest. My mind too a mangle is.
The two-edged sword of being human and knowing it: blades of grass never compare themselves to an oak or look in mirrors. I never love you more than when I watch you look at your reflection and relish what you see. Only a human would do something so dirty and shrewd and divine. When you touch me you turn me into rose quartz clouds, into the shadow of a hawk passing over car