rectangular access
light thru the morning fog is violet on the access hatch
bored into the outer attic
GUTTER CHARM
The greenwhite spoon-cup-shell-
sheaf-crookwhy, smooth as driftwood.
The whitebrown house-shell-comb-
cup-home
why, each one is eachly
like a pebble,
why, each one
is the color of age, like seaglass.
The crookdark
porchtrap-microclimate brownblack
cave-house-mom-cup-rock, or the statue left
to pool rainwater
why, old as a pathway
for water.
Chain of cups. Chain of cups. Chain
of cups. Chain of—like birdbaths—
cups. Chain—windchime—of—
pools for the end, puddlepools, offering
what they hold—nothing—for no
redemption, unasking—cups. Chain—
windchime—of—whoever has, will
greatly receive. The fountain unfaltering
stuff its gaps with selfabundance unlacking,
only swaying like a husband
at another's wedding, the swatches
of the beautiful unfunny, unrevealing,
a dark map of the whole big handsome
fucking dog, black and glossy—cups.
Chain—dessicate air moves around
the foot of the ridge, beside
the wagontrack, a bit above, on a
small, sloped zone near the mountain
tunnel, enough above the path
to be untrod. Nothing grows
in the sand. The moving air brings
light debris rattling against the ridgeside, but
its weightless scuttle rarely takes it
over the low mound separating the slope
from the path. Bits and leafparts
and fur go around there, scrabble
at the striated ridgesection. Left to
nothing—Shrovetide—they build
pyramids of themselves, stand on heads,
build brushes & sheaves of themselves,
build cones by standing on their heads,
chains by spooning themselves
& locking their legs. If you do not
die you go to a party that never ends,
with a song that never ends. And the
people there will dance a chain of cups—
of cups. White, blownout exposure—
chain of—a small song each time
a palm is read. Small is a
darkness whose bottom is an
issue for itself. A tulip is a tulip whose
bottom cup—and the pedal latches
lying there in dark, cryptic like a
gearshift, stamen, a rakelock of
astounding fineness and rigidity—
for a found sculpture like a bottlerack—
for something steeped in fertility—
is an issue for itself—cups.
MANHOLE POEM
Where vapor's off it's a handsome vent‑‑‑
the gentleman's got thru intrusion in the mail slit‑‑‑
tollbooth in a world under flood‑‑‑
a due for passage‑‑‑
the beast washes itself under the loop‑‑‑
cologne overwhelms the dream, so that breath is puzzled‑‑‑
to toss relieves; the peril worsens under cipher, until the scheme splinters and is set again‑‑‑
Categories are a nighttime way of getting dirty‑‑‑
the gallery is double-high‑‑‑
the air in here circles, rises when lit, drifts over hemlines and out of sleeves‑‑‑
it's day and everything's removable‑‑‑
there's a moving room‑‑‑
if his leg pains, he can remove it‑‑‑
he can shut down the shocked body, foreclose, leaving only a simple outline of a daisy sealed in a notebook‑‑‑
the shock can be bottled or jarred‑‑‑
the jar prevents the spread of fluid and influence‑‑‑
Gold-lettered tortoise comb, seen only at the station where the tolls are filed‑‑‑
if the system's remnants can achieve the comb, it becomes a certain sort of jar‑‑‑
a jar like a car which, changing lanes, does not clatter and come unscrewed but holds its form; instead of being encrypted as a sickness in the dreamer's cipher‑‑‑
where air is always venting, the speech is still going‑‑‑
a short-term chart can only hack so far‑‑‑
shuttle whizzes past and‑‑‑
the breath wafting from the cave is stirred‑‑‑
but the cave relays the hitch to the deepest wall within its system‑‑‑
the footprint of the cave is a cipher for the shock, assumes its echo as a symbol for its own desire‑‑‑
no chamber of the cave can be removed‑‑‑
everyone who lingers by the mouth is invited in‑‑‑
and worn‑‑‑
their stenciled faces gaping in the wind as the belle staggers thru her dream‑‑‑
The whole cave air could never carve itself along the border of the dream‑‑‑
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