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soap softens in the corner rust and wood water falls two cellar door maybe three times while I’m living won’t be many more of that I’m sadly give me sun sure where the skin falls Sunday morning out beneath cloudless blue Larabelle, open air bathe my body in your summer wash my memory like pollen from your hair |
sun
World Trade Center at Lunchtime on a Weekday
a breeze cools me
sun-blind before
a sparkling fountain
luster of heavy power
this plaza, impact crater
of money
white shirts, student backpacks
the rustle of sandwich papers
and the fountain.
dirty pigeons scavenge,
feathers musty in the sun.
a bronze ball of involving might
rivets this place
to the earth
Fire Island, July 1997
I left myself on the beach,
with towels and shoes, a book, lemonade
it is all behind me, back on the beach
here I am only light,
or sand, lightly salted,
and water
I am waving, and each wave
only kind of repeats
this strange salt pungence in my nostrils
too long dulled by cab coughs
and uncurbed dogs
reminds me of my breathing
and it is waving
with a cresting anticipation
of intake
and a booming exhalation
some waves find relief
on the land
and it strikes me
that the place of waves
is a place of shifting
promises between
the kingdoms of land and sea
and like me
traces the shiver
of extremes for awhile
but, lemonade,
the scent of coconut on a magazine