New Draft

August 14, 2008

Love Swordfish Artichoke.

Sometimes, I read poetry and I think
why don’t I read poetry more often?
I should read it everyday, wake up
five or six, Google random words, like –
wing, cusp, love,
swordfish, artichoke –

This approach,
may not be the most direct
but I might find-

the interlocking panels of a silver bream –
a swordfish like a sharp rail.
There may be fields,
unfurled flags of lit loam,
fresh soil – tulip bulbs
like hand grenades.

Love
would be something on the cusp
of something else,
a line of light, a door held.

something escaping slowly.

Would it burn circles in the screen?
Reach out, graze skin?
After seeing it –

would I still be able to go to work?

The other day I found some poetry
pressed inside the pages of a
pulped book – poetry
like a coiled whip,
like a small snake.

It trapped my breath and buried it
beneath a cherry tree, in a garden
on the outskirts of a different city
I had to walk for miles
to recover it.

But when I got there it had changed.

It was caught
in the dark glass
of a thick jar.
It was night time
but even with the moon,
you could see the fire
and when I sucked it back,
it burnt my lips
it burnt my lungs
and I couldn’t sleep,
it made me fall in love
and I don’t even know what with-
or who, maybe love –

swordfish, artichokes-
or something on the cusp
of something else.

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