When the radio in my car broke I started to notice the trees.
I began to stop exaggerating the color of leaves,
how their reds and oranges need no wordy embellishment.
I started to open my window and smell the wet pavement
This must be what hell is:
To be the man drawn by the child
not yet dexterous enough to keep
his insides within the lines.
I am not interested in coming back as grass.
Or a slobbering dog.
Or a one-legged beggar on the streets of Calcutta.
Or even a good-hearted genius with chiseled features and perfect teeth
By freezing passion at its blossoming
perhaps Rodin knew he challenged
Sophocles who said as lover you want
ice to be ice yet not melt
Walking through a field
I came to a door
on the ground
some farmer must have lost
I hate the way they intertwine as if having sex.
I put them in a jar all separate and when I go
to pull one out it's linked to another clip,
sometimes a whole string interlocked.
So very much having passed before our eyes,
and our eyes in the end saw nothing.
Those who will someday live here where we end
The projectionist splices out scenes.
He gives me weekends, holidays,
but snips what comes in between.
Each time my daughter, my son is someone else.
The woman wants to know if I need help.
She's seen me fingering the lacy cups,
thinking of you
and those pendulous orbs
Clothes on the line look bodiless and bored.
Roses dream of jumping down their stems.