Tuesday, September 14, 2021

Suddenly All These Aunts

Feeling the mess. Tag sale culture. Voices at a distance, resolving to gender. We who stand while eating, while doing the dishes, but later sit to write, this.

Suddenly there are all these siblings, suddenly all these aunts suggesting this or that tradition be up-ended. First star, slivered moon, empty hands through which ghost trout glide, finally free.

Atop the mountain a body of water.

At what are you looking? The mail boxes are knocked over, drunks weaving up Main Street at 1 a.m., last call at this or that bar. Poetry is a form of magic, which is to say, technology, which is to say, are you giving attention to the effect you are creating with your wordiness?

Geese pass, pulling behind them an invisible thread to which winter is attached, a white sheet that sparkles when the moonlight reaches it just so. 

Hymns, heart shapes, hand grenades, holiness. 


Soviet-era percussion patterns. Apologies. Pink flowers - like floating gauze - I rename "Dad's Anxiety."

Everything is faster now. The tide we anticipate is a consequence of the tide we remember, there is no other way to be. Fundamental disconnects leaving us like sailors with no means of calculating latitude.

These luminous moons, these lavender hills.

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