Jack Spicer makes me weep this morning
waking up, bitterest espresso and heart's
tourettes, expostulations against what is
trying to enter in through the window...
workman on the roof across the passage,
shirt off, sweats, gleams, banded brow,
suddenly a cry erupts unstopt past my
mouth & ears, 'Snow man! Upon the bleak pitch! '
then hear, he is singing out loud in
creosote, the sweetest song, of black
hands, black eyes wet, black brush
tar thick in slow rhythms,
'Coo coo roo coo coo, paloma'...
then Spicer breaks to shadows
across the page, a fruit fly
insists upon the sweetness this poem,
'I am going to ask Christ to give
me back my childhood, ripe with sunburn and feathers and a