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If he can make it through February, he’ll be all right. That’s what Joel thinks, all during the wintertime. If he can make it through December, like that old Merle Haggard song David had loved. If he can make it through January. But February is the hardest of all.
The day before you died.A wildebeest chewing on grass. The sun the only thing in the sky.The sky is gray and wet.The moment before is now the second to last moment.The phone is ringing.There is always a closer moment.A rustle in the tall grass behind it. A bubble from the watering hole.I say I love you. You say I know.Every moment leads to another.
I had been ridden all night and woke up wet and intemperateand walked out because of the economy and back without a single pieceof fruit or one end of a halter around a chestnut mare. Spit and hissfrom the electrical, although when the bulbs lit up I was awed andat the same time the slave trade, the treaties torn up and the landgrabbed, and my mother burned in her Marine
We did not make our sea’s idea of order. Yet we are the makers of our ever-hooded. Let me not let be unseemly finales— bulbous racism. That white lamp. Bronze syntactical solenoids latch: Stevens’s affixing despite the beam. Bronzeville’s reddest room ablated by a whitest house fixture. Let me not let be his unseemly remark when Brooks won the Pulitzer. Let me not let be I
Ants line up for a single lick of a lollipop.Locked in my home I don’t need to hunt for food.Downtown Los Angeles is empty skyscrapers.Open their windows and they become really big flutes.The wind sings its way through them.Right to the tents that line the streets.Lined up like ants.The melody is of sirens. Of people.The Governor says we should stay at home.Home is where the