200.
Don’t put up more signs
I hear them hammer their stakes in
for sale signs by the frightened
houses
how poignant to move among the living
how her body leaps to welcome
circumstance
word the editor put in place of ‘God’
haunted by temple friezes a harlot in
heaven
noble souls entrusted to my care
catch a reflection of the rising sun
outline with pencil the shadows of
the leaves R.H.
till all the trees are written down
then sleep beside it till the rooster
crows.
201.
I hear him over the hill or is that
the sun in my eyes
a picture long enough to wrap around
your waist
and go romancing in an old book
slippery pavement on the road to
Neaux
in this cicada year the moon says
less
moon no bigger than a mosquito
moon buzzing in my eyes
till the cock crowed and here I am
cicadas fuguing with the buzz-buzz in
my ears
with one hypnotic pass I wake me up
look Robert there are days inside the
day
the birds are gone but the sky is
still there.
