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Stiletto

Jason

A blue fog bats the window of No. 37 bus
beating the slag
to Southeast Chicago

(two 13 yr old kids foraging for rubbers in Ford City)

Pink hollyhocks butt the fence
fencing the dirt lot
behind the station

                .   .   .

A parakeet lost in Grant Park
flies from one maple tree to another
banging her head in the branches
                                                 eyeing
The soft bed-woods of the Amazon
the eiderdown spruce
the cottonwood
the wooly oak

...only hard maples in the park

                .   .   .

my words prey on my mind
you pick those you like behind your seven teeth
swallow whole berries just to hear them swallow
pretend to be a dog or groundhog eating grass and swilling at the
      garden hose
you're a bear
browned, ferocious and naked bounding over lamps and picture
      frames bellowing
hunted and hunter
through the dog's door and freedom under the asparagus.

                .   .   .

the busses jockey for position and line for blocks
empty and waiting as the rushed afternoon shift breaks at Ford
the drivers crush their waxed cartons of milk
chuck the last bite of bologna on white to the sunflowers
rev the burly GMC's and follow each other
all the way to the loop.

                .   .   .

So new you are
       separate
from the rest
       of us
squeezing our feelings
like eggs
or buttons
like skin, teeth,
fingers of the dead
with which we touch ourselves.

                .   .   .

The hands of your mother are maps to guide you into yourself.

                .   .   .

The warm air suggests summer.
Under the apple tree frogs divide the seasons
croaking after each other
and the young.

                .   .   .

Your laughter stops you
wrestling with your face as it drifts over
wide and round
you're not afraid
don't cry
you seem to wonder at its similarity to something you know already

your name is not your own.

                .   .   .

I'm alive again in the dream of racing over open roads.
You lope beside me as I accelerate and feel the tires lift
I'm intent on speed
you're content to move
your skin shines with the silver oil of seasoned wood
your tiny fists flay the air without anger
as much as I would like I can't slow down.

                .   .   .

Tender shoots of the crocus poke through roots of crab-grass
the rake pulls them shivering
taut as nipples
under the rubbing.

                .   .   .

Jason, your name is my wish

                .   .   .

When the bells of the town clock check the silence
I confront the dog
that hangs inside my dark eyes.        Pick
its green-cased blossom
and drain the juice between my teeth

                .   .   .

I'm naked in a small wood
the sun bastes the leaves over my head
across the clearing
the monarch butterflies are turning north
I watch their brilliant dust
settle in the weeds.

                .   .   .

Short turns of the scythe crop the old corn
you straddle my shoulders
as I walk
between the rows
the tassles stand high
and you ride them
weaving and rocking in their delicate dance.

 

Overview
Barcelona Diary
It's Mother's Day
By Dawn's Early Light at 120 Miles Per Hour
Stiletto
The Man With His Back To The Room
Intimacies, Prose. Poems and Stories
Homage to a Widow
It's Only TV
Improvisations - Chapbook
After Goya
Escapades
Improvisations - From Contemporary Music