By Elizabeth Lake
I weep profusely
into the cockeyed sofa
this blue sky
is a roof without relief
lilies
dance on raw red mince
this is strip-tease on the trapeze
these grapes I have
forbidden myself
for libertys sake
for meditation on very young
suburban third-world love
so arranged
that comets
herald the
rising sun
in eccentric orbits around a setting earth
for this loss
I shamelessly weep
for these bloodstains
on my snow covered chimney sweep
for crows that are not jackdaws
for cardboard jousting-spears
and tiny electric cars
for bedraggled
eagles
at last shorn
of my eagles pride
of wing sweep shifts
that geese make
to fly into
afternoon wind
before they land
for this relearning of alphabets
abandoned on arthritic sand
Cross The Road
the pedestrian light
makes chirpy noise
for the deaf
and dumb
these wheels to infinity
sing on asphalt that was
embedded in celestial swamp
and deadly mangrove roots
point
ominously
to a spotless sky
that has burned away breathing rights
three four cows
and their shadows cling
to siren song
basement cuisine in Lily Wong
those were the days
when whiskey did
what pictures of distant stars
promise in primrose books
about
pumpkin wars
this light shines cold
and no return
on goods once
sold
Far Away
these coffee dregs
or apple juice
to water my bathroom
plant
Ive actually seen wisps of smoke
from pink chimneys
on Gallaudet
mock seagulls that defecate
on mock Latin tiles
its been a while
since rain stained
skeletal
glass with an odor
drained
into earth in heat
by now you know
this story is all about defeated grass
quagmired in a palimpsest
of mistaken zest
quarantined for reasons
so agrarian that flowers laugh
he laughs
the mistral laughs
even as sand dunes come and go away
the camels laugh
Fourth Quarter
look up
at so much love
turn all the ceiling lights on
this vault
this cavern aches
with creaking stalactites
bees and
wasps
sway to and fro in the morning breeze
street light
burns bright
still sheltered from
yesterdays sun
is that all it will be
ashes and cigarette smoke
still
not inhaled
gray pain
in the water
the boat has sailed
into the elephantine head
of the
almost nothing god
no one still molested
only things given up
for
so much love
Mild Recrimination
if only
you could tell me everyday
I would not have to revert
every now and then
to my
cross-legged crouch
and curse idols
for not making be
what should
have been
I could have saved
so many workman like sins
from
going astray
so much time expended
in counting to the end of time
please forgive me
this penchant
for market fresh
farmers bitter peel
ignore this scream
so much salt-water
in this slipstream
of sky-chariots
that disgorge scorpions
and slippery snakes
into heavens full of
holes
if only
you had collected the tolls