Oh, You Are Perfect

Oh, you are perfect.
The sky sings it
The birds sing it
My heart sings it
And also my mouth
Because while these ethereal things are sweet,
More so is admission.



You keep making such grand promises–
design! motion! light!–
but I know I’d be stuck in this cubicle
for seven years (at least). I smile,
but I have already moved on.

I Look Out the Window and Winter Stares Back at Me

(“Washing Potatoes” revisited)

My eyes have adjusted
To the bright outside-light
Of the sun pressing through the clouds
Spraying it’s weightless, vivid foam
Across the cherry tree, the snow,
The house, still merry, with
Its rainbow thread of lights;
its icicles dripping in time.
Everything is cool and blue
Or purple, like the cherry tree bark
Which stands out against the fence
That’s winter-washed and grey.
Despite the cold in my eyes,
I am warm. The nozzle
Spraying mechanically across
Two pounds of muddy potatoes
Splatters my shirt-front and arms
Pleasantly, in hot droplets
That collect and sparkle
Like the sun off the frosty rooftops.
Hot and cold together; I am reminded
of another pair of wintry blue eyes
which can melt even my icicles.



Rosettes. The immediate magic
of a Guilloche Drawing Machine:
ink strung into curves knit
into ribbons laced into light.
Seeing these reduces my proficiency
into scribbled, thoughtless butterflies
whose flapping wings cause hurricanes
off the coast of Asia where–
regardless of etymology–
cloisonné was born, brass lace
whose only rival is the master fretwork
of scroll saws and tenacity.
A personal favorite: finials
turned on a brother rose machine
like the watch faces I saw before.

And all of this is supposed to inspire me
to turn horology and mathematics
into the clumsy, babied patterns
of a hoot-nanny, but I
want spider webs and the cosmos
for my spirograph.


Trying to Write Something New

All I can think about now is my sleeping
As I groggily ponder a poem or two,
But instead of free-flowing, my words are fast-keeping.

I’m watching you work, it is late in the evening
And I know in two days that this poem is due,
But all I can think about now is my sleeping.

About that last poem I wrote, I’ve been thinking:
can’t turn it in, though its merits aren’t few.
Instead of free-flowing, those words are for keeping.

That poem was sexy, and full of hot breathing
But it’s something that must stay between me and you,
Although I can think now of only that sleeping.

So I’m gripping my pen as I stare at the ceiling
And nothing is coming, at least nothing new.
Yes, instead of free-flowing, the words are fast-keeping.

I try to put some thoughts away for safekeeping
But it doesn’t matter what I try to do.
All I can think about now is my sleeping.
Instead of free-flowing, my words are fast-keeping.


Sometimes it’s all just wanting you,
Anticipating you, lips wet
And knowing that you want me, too.

Tonight we are a tangled two;
I beg you: wont you take me yet?
Sometimes it’s all just wanting you.

My hair’s disheveled, clothes askew;
It makes me quiver, makes me sweat
Just knowing that you want me, too.

Your ready passions warmed and grew
Preparing for a crowning jet:
Sometimes it’s all just wanting you,

And waiting ’til that want comes due–
The want to meet in bold duet–
And knowing that you want me, too.

We writhe until the dance is through
And all our blood is mixed and met.
Sometimes it’s all just wanting you
And knowing that you want me, too.