AngelBug271: A Retrospective in Perspective

 

The things left out would fill an armory:

snow mattresses made out of fresh-cut spruce,
cross hatched, Air-Wicky, noisy in the night;
the thrum his pulse beat the last hundred yards
of a 440; locust shells on trees,
adhesive, alien, empty; new Keds.

Some themes, though do emerge, and many words.
Seven poems begin with moon & stars;
and "tears" appears in every single one.
The word for Love.  The word for blood.  The word
made ink, but never flesh.  Not even chance
makes miracles.  The moon.  The stars.  The moon.

The grout between the bathroom tiles.  The wind
unrolling the awning.  Look: they are not there.

An Advent Calendar

 

The austere plain is only my front yard

At 2 a.m., and me without my glasses.
These are not angels, drifting in the wind,
Browning and brittle skeletons, the shape
Of feathers, strings of light, and Christmas stars;
But they will do. The lawn is edified
And passes on its wisdom. In the genes
Of adjectives the flexible is made
Customary, a quiff of clothes for skin
Which cannot bear the touch of falling leaves,
Of fallen princesses, of yellow bones
Made into grass, made into trees, remade,
Remade with no trick ending while it sleeps.

L'Envoi

This is what I made.

I made it all myself.

And now that it is done,

It’s no good, I’m afraid,

To stick it in a drawer

Or stack it on a shelf.

And there are plenty more,

Dark and all alone.

Why, sure I can attest

And swear by Mars and Jove

That art and bronze are best,

That nothing lives but love:

And make myself a home,

Safe in my metronome.

And worms will not protest.

And grass will not complain.

And some protagonist

Will do it all again,

Good, better, and best,

All washed out by the rain.

So read this if you would.

It may do me some good.