Horses

A night of memory, searching for the front room,
the paneled room, the one with windows.

Who was with me?
I sought to scare it, ghoulish thing, out of hiding.
I turned up a list of things forgotten.

Clear silent, intact, existing, perfect six-sided blossoms.
Spun glass inhabiting vacuums.
Webs impossible to walk without disturbing.
A texture of flesh and sweaters.

Yesterday's equal to ten years ago,
equally a twisting tube,
an echo - else more perfect than before.

Chiding, 'Hush up! Shut up!'
Her wig, her head wound.
Dawn birds starting the day, only time to manifest.
Or prove something, tireless,
again and again.

The inheritances are all wound tightly, unspooled for me
unclaimed, perfectly rendered, without dust.

France crow's call, early morn.
India crow call,
New England crow call.
Was the ground frozen?

An all-red autumn, horses stand, in clouds of their own breath.

Tugboats

Mind a mess - I slept too late.
'Hautil', 'Mantois', tugboat names,
after an awful dream, a van stuck in mud.
Then a bus took Anna's car away,
they went towards north Paris.
Anna, with her blonde hair,
morning headache, hangover, yawning,
Friends arrive tomorrow . . .
Dogs haul sledges, snarl at the owner of the farm.
Fried turbot for lunch, pale yellow,
Marie-Rose unpacks glasses, at the new appartement.

The Feast

A raccoon feasted on oysters at midnight,
left a mess of shells split, cracked, open wide and dry.
White dust, fertilizer powder, and pearls.

I was that raccoon.

Shattered shards,
 white vases, and confetti,
  broken vows, a hillock of dishes,
   covered in white cloth.

A mess of broken things, waiting repair.
  are they kept
  for memory?

It is springtime.
 An opened window lets flies into the room.
 They buzz in
 find the air too cool to please them,
 turn in a lazy circle,
   and buzz back out.

Argenteuil sous la Neige

Clouds behind clouds,
Monet's blue lyricism,
brush strokes
made small canvases seem large . . .

Monet's blue,
I know just the kind of day that was.
near freezing, my feet were wet,
The sun was low, glowing at the horizon, before it set.

I held skates
in my cold left hand.
shoes untied, snow inside them.
Cold, I smelled woodsmoke.

The neighbor's dog was barking.

Voice

London trodden alleys,
slippery with broken fruit.

Berwick cockney sellers are calling
a gut literature of English,
a street map of Empire,
in all it's spoken forms,

Every sound the British throat can make,
at home and abroad.

Stravinski's fire feathers
are sent in all directions,
gifts from the Prince.

Suddenly, I fear that I could be murdered,
and my murderer might not know her own mind.

Going to Lyon

It's a quiet Sunday,
on the platform,
a motor hums, then clicks.
Swallows flit about in the electric wires.

Two kids play in the baggage carts.
at the end of the yard
A man steps from a glass office.
holding a long paddle,
He waves it, and blows a whistle.

The engineer sees him,
The train starts to roll,
quiet, the cars hum a little,
a homeless person walks alongside.

One pantographs sputters
and drops to the roof of the engine.
It glides, ever increasing speed.
The electric sulfur smell, burnt eggs . . .

Twenty cars full of people,
disappear into a maze of track.

The café dish clatter becomes loud again.
Signals turn to green.
The starter ambles back to his glass office.
He's just a boy,
wearing a man's uniform.