thrift is the ambient name
for
doing
what you have decided
&
not spending any more time
wondering
J-6 is the name of the exit
expecting
little traffic
to
impede your trek to the
summit
when the baby is sick, one must
stay
home from the Lion’s Club
rummage
sale, even
in
Mexico
absinth is the name of a
labyrinth
in the mysterioso
question
about the organization
of
hairs all across the human
body
whatever the case in this case of
lack
of sufficient exercise
I don’t care if it makes my
legs
tremble I need to
move
these limbs until I swear &
all
the lymph in every part
recirculates
like a
bubbling
Zen desk fountain
what do you mean— there is no such thing
as
a bathroom punch card
these
things are not rationed
by
a rational person
awake all night listening to the
antique
electric light timer &
knowing
exactly what shirt I would wear
&
which hat would put me
so
clearly in the center of any picture
thrift does not apply to lotion
thrift does not apply & should
never
be mentioned when speaking of
human
affection
in the lilac room with the red dispenser
I have
a dream
on every page of my calendar I see
a picture
of a man & a woman together
I carry my own food & water
so
need is not an issue
I’ll take one of the small black ones with straps
&
a slim cardinal suit
with
a zipper
I’ll go to the world in the trappings
the
banter the fashion
the style the excitement
the
polish & wit & gloss
the
full expression
the
sofa the grand sale
the
music the baile
the
dancing high heels
the
invulnerable leather
the
checkpoint the
customs
the permission
the
menu the risks &
passions
& all that could
ever
occur on the
border
the past selves— the little girl
the dry October grass, the in-motion
the boat on the lake, the earrings
the hands, the whole
selves, the cold camp, the moon card
the legs & feet, the dog the dog the dog, the girl
the porcelain artifacts, the purge
ephemeral carpet of flowers, the in-motion
the heights, the dizziness, stop
spinning, the in-motion, the curtains
the dirt road, the wooden porch, the neck
the throat, the hands, the pulse in motion
the past, the days, the past
the collar, the trial, the exercise
the chair, the ground, the future
it’s a long way up
the airport, ancient terraces, the eyes
the boulder, the bull in love, the sliding slope
the knees, solitary, dark mountain
the cup of water, the rose, the relic
balance, the rest, the walk
the climb, transit, the ground
the gaze, the walk
describing her character is
an essay in the state of grace
in a curved generation it’s the whole generation
& it’s her character—
this is an old girl a tall Alice
& Wonderland is Walgreen’s in this case
& she goes to work with a briefcase & a bag
& her character frames her
& is written all over her face
she’s more than a portrait yet this portrait is barely
moving is is is a bit static is is is is a bit quiet
the shout is on the other side
with the train, but wait— hope—
wait— what is her face
a presentation, a cause, a launcher
of some ship as yet unknown
a lift of a certain element in a bottle of tea—
the front is more difficult to find—
so fixed it disappears, as in the case of certain
elements or the bankruptcy of a worthy cause—
which is not to say anything is wrong
but just to say at times
even noble things
need to change
there was one day at the schoolgirl’s
desk
whether between listening to a popular song
or going to dog class
herself as female for many lifetimes & at all ages
innocence & the practical, practice & patience
she is the landscape in a body
with a voice but most of all eyes
some residual 19th-century helplessness
close the door you’re letting in the heat
I insist
you’re letting in too much
so long till I am recognized
but the study of the world is reward
anyway
the battle & the bottle
the male’s armor & departures
value & honor
keep going
the wrap of the disappearing constant
whose gift, sweetheart, was having less
I cleared a place to stand
& name my birthright
I have waited for the king—
for the tap on the forehead—
the golden crown—
as I turn over the ground
& bury the wooden couple in the yard—
not to end a dream, but
so something new could rise
from its hard seed—
to have less, to clear & clear
down to the shelter itself—
ease into the long
hibernation of our lady
taming the demon—
the gift this year was
staying in the full fire of my heart
living in the dear body of my discomfort
gripping & gritting, pulsing & turning loose
days of no appeal
just the lay of the land
& all its mystery laid bare
& vibrant
an aperture