GUTTER CHARM

The greenwhite spoon-cup-shell-

sheaf-crook 

                        why, 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.