THE NEW POEM 3: garden varieties

take eyes from the rise of roof lines
jagged with antennas.
guttered with tennis balls
lobbed and lodged in
gravitated paths that
feed the garden, the weeds,
the casual twig on the asphalt
cracked and crooked,

lift hands to top shelves
where medicines and poisons
mix their warnings,
lower head to tiles
that greet any saddened visage
witnessing the dust
and razor blades
that circle the cistern,

perch an ear to the window
as the blowers clear the debris
with gusts of gasoline combustion,
there is talk of
needed things, precious moments lost in awful hobbies,

yes, one remarks, I was online until work came along
and I was still in pajamas
without lunch money,

no, says the other, such a thing never happened
because you still have your tools,
that torch that sears through the pipe,
what you need is a shave and to dig in
like a weed as all these matters form coalitions,


run a comb through the hustle of hair
a hirsute God left one with,
study the ravines the face achieves,
button the shirt,
smell a rat in the works
when a signature impends a happy ending,

listen to theroom,
wood matches striking,
clean plates being stacked,
drying in the March air .

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