Saturday, November 30, 2002

Before the archives close on this my second week of blogging, the poem of the week:

Poetry is an Exercise in Futility


Describe for me, will you

How white with dew and dim light
The grass in the cowfields echoes the eclipse
Of the log which the fire consumed.

How awakened, the wind
Creeps under the cat-door
If I am late returning.

The persistent reappearance of certain words,
Like language, and cat, and sometimes.
As if these things could be understood.


Or treat it as a hypothetical case:

Aaron is in the car discussing his impending affair.

We are following Aaron’s girlfriend’s car
Which Aaron’s girlfriend is driving
Back from the garage in Wilmington.
We are watching carefully for signs
That it was not fixed correctly.

Smoke pours out the exhaust
At traffic lights.

We pass to tell her and change our minds
At the last second, just keep going.

Aaron’s girlfriend waves
At the back of Aaron’s head
In the rear view mirror.

Now you try writing a poem about that.


I keep thinking
The boots are the cat.
I keep thinking. The boots. The cat.

Write that.


While we are still lovers, let us continue
To shower each other with constant small gifts.

The impending moon hangs on our every world.

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