Linen Sheets, 2006

Linen Sheets, 2006

This is where we live, Spring.
Quietly, moving around the yard.
This way and that.

You do this–I’ll do that.
Did you hear him singing?
He hums while playing. It’s an
ephemeral wail. It’s his.

I sawed down the weed trees
last fall. You hung the suits, free.
I hawled the twisted vine to
the curb, but they won’t take it now.

You took out all your machinery
and took it apart. I tell you how
you are. But he still lives in your mind,
telling you this and that.

All my folks know you like that.
Tall–not here, you fit right in.

I cleared the yard, blank.
I’ll write a poem for her but when
do I start? You don’t know
because I do so much in my mind.

I stay up late waiting for my muse.
And you wheeze and groan all by yourself.
Upstairs in the linen sheets.

I wonder when I’ll be magic again.
I wonder when–is it this
spring or next? Will I run or flow?

You are a hooker for speed, his songs
flow like a quick-flicker. You don’t
go to see this one but that’s regular.

The boy runs that way and the next.
There’s nothing to kill in this place
it’s all gone. Nothing.

We live on top of a stream.
Our house aches with its kit age.

But we just sit.
Sit and see what’s going on along here.
We just sit. And go.

The mud is back–thick.
Rev’ that up right there.
Cough with smoke.

Come & write me a check.
Take me away from this poverty.
Will I follow?

I’m looking out. I can sit outside again.
Sit and sip. Tea. This needs that,
you need not. That’s okay.

Is this who she knew? This is where.
Maybe not.