Driving, the trees a heavy green, water
vapor gathering in the ditches at the verge
of the metal-testing road, a lawyer friend
relays news of sexual misconduct
in Washington. Another writes from Minnesota
about guys in his town bar, how
their talk revolves around the penis,
its many uses. I'm convinced they have it
right. All I can hope is to wear out
my flesh. What matters beyond a fall-
tinged August wind, steam blown back
from the Eddie Raven tour bus, the shelf of cold
air behind a cloud-troweled sky?
Nothing
but the slick feel of a Chevy
fender, bending against it, your body
hot as a summer garage, nothing
but the roller coaster second before you come.
Compline
Each night I say it
The prayer for silence
For no whisky sighs
No pewter rain in the mountains no
Granite storm's bedlam
On the folded tin roof no squandered children
Under a heavy downpour.
This is a small prayer, Lord
Keep us from a breathing scream and the stones
Falling and falling.
The Expatriate Sends a Letter
Dear Margo:
Everyone has to come from somewhere.
Every someone has to come from where?
One has to come some from everywhere.
I come from there. Now I'm here. I wish you were, too.
I'm here now. I wish you were come from there to here.
I don't like to admit how like the local folks I am.
I am like the local folks. How I don't like to admit it.
I hope this letter will reach you soon.
Soon you will reach hope and this letter.
I hope I will too.
She Says
As the girl describes it now, she
Was so demure/untamed a mistress;
That he was wholly besotted/indifferent.
Her approach succeeds to recall/invent
How afterward they did/did not leave
With/without attendant grief.
How their life apart or, perhaps, in tandem
Achieved the requisite obloquy/fame.
This way, she design herself the heroine
Of some delicious/woeful scene.
In interviews notable for silences/recitals
She tells the truth both pre/post coital.