Dear Erin,

I am a cauldron. Not a pot.

Sincerely, The Cauldron-Pot

goatlike

Had you the eyes of a goat,

they would be almond, half-green, half-

yellow, an almond

shape to them. Were you

less as you are, cat-like, a brush

head, sad, sad, un-

goatlike.

-Robert Creeley

and then I woke up and took a leak in the fridge.

for Jamison

I woke up with the glossiest Farah Fawcett head
the wispiest and
baby hairs glowing.
I feared the weed whacker how it could belop my stylish top.


The kohlrabi in the crisper drawer, its bunchy root hairs
a far far cry I shook
my tendrils grown
brunette in deepest purple crowns, vegetable browns.


I opened the door to behold the sun beholding my hair.
I hurried the walkway
down to the jeweler
what have they this side of trend in adornments for the head.


What have they that can (I asked the spectacles that meant the man)
apply a certain
immutable play,
a gentle liminal brevity about my hair of truth?

This one I dedicate to Ana Caban.

I am on it this time, only one toe trembling. Lurching


back to push stretch into stretchy [. . .] Movement defined by


being defensive. Keeps all the ligaments in equal mean. You


could assume this of me, my height and weight the natural


concordance. I see all dimensions [. . .] flattened. I like it this way


so keep it from rolling away. Into that other mind, beaming.

Sunday Morning for BJ and Anna: Dialogue Poems and Pancakes

The scene is set Western where the high boy waits on his high horse normative, and moaning for a real lady. Listen, Lady. (as she steps from the train) It’s a cruel mood I’m in and no mistaken. My eye sight might be mortared on your mid parts but my mind is quick as any and You look to me too nice to roll around too nice to roll around in. Look here, there’s a nice room in the inn, and I suggest you wait a while lest some ruffian Let some rough hand head you off and drive out East. You oughtta wait, you oughtta wait right here for the next bound Eastbound train, just turn tail right here. Turn your tail round and right this right here. I hear this here Jacob’s inn has the softest mattresses around. You might want. You might want to roll around, and lace trimmin’ lace on each and every pillow.


Exeunt in Mauve

of an over over-ex
ertion in the garden to

day. Timony and his pet
onions waiting to be cheered,

finally softens but little.
A little dour a mum personage,

aged nineteen and a volume
poorly. Up and check

on her bright stage
pulled across. Each stair

softened to the lame leg,
petunias simply back

drop. Shall read to them
to grow a feeling. Over

each beaded strand
insisting on a visitation.

Aglow. Drawing out
the library its warm lit

face. Faces Timony once
to warrant him be ready.