and my patient typewriter, endlessly patient
waits for my fingers,
my shiatsu, healing.
Rest in your grove, you olives!
Soon they will come and gather all the fruit you have,
and make oil of you.
An address book of muted friends, hidden, compressed
I open you from time to time.
Then Tolstoy grabs at you,
He sits in his corner.
Dreamed your fine example,
a watercolor gift from your father.
My green insides are running low.
My stack is work, a uranium pile,
Hershel's plowed field
Ready to react - I am the pile driver - I drive stakes deep
into shallow pages of type.
What pokes up here, a weed?
A rhododendron?
White out my weed killer!
Swiss army pruning shears
Ink is all the manure I can put out.
Pull or paint the letters, it makes no difference!
Prune the healthy font above the four leaf,
plough well and fertilize into the autumn,
Hope the serif freezes.
Plant when the moon is waxing,
rotate - do this with scissors and glue.
Type over - harrowing - slow embellishment.
Put beneath ground in a cellar to mature
When the Emperor visits, spare him one rose,
then let blood soak well into the earth.
Another leaf?
Just a speck of dust
in the eye of a storm,
on Jupiter.
