Wednesday, March 23, 2011


The bones of your dory rest under the pines.
Untouched since last August,
she gathers webs and shadows.
She should be long done, painted, varnished,
 graceful in the bay.
The wood sits beneath the sky,
bears the sun and moon, the rain
and snow. The wind hums through her, 
echoes her emptiness. Always she aches 
for your hands to finish her.

Anne, who would be queen

Oh, that I might be tidy, sky blanched,
fields ribboned, trees skinned of bark.
But all is a-jumble, tangled and on fire.
Your fox-grin is torn away by a gust.
I am left to imagine your chattering jaw.

If I were neat you would be buried
behind the flat stones, courted
by cockroach and pin-light. 
But you are a shattered goblet, here
and there, sharp and eager for flesh. 

My shelves are rife with such stories,
spines rotten and pages loose.
I will never pick them up again.
I leave them for the flood, for the blaze,
for the blind-eyed moon. Let the tragedy

play out once more to the song of glass
and wind. Remind me what to regret.
Then perhaps I will disinherit
this chaos, my birthright of disarray.
I will let you go like a handful of dust.