5 Towns
The foot's bone pushing through
walking beside older self, resigned to immediate pulses.
Compliant.
Anaerobic speck in a jar.
A tiny hole with water.
Hands held toward sky.
Who's to help paper cut figures.
Is your foot working today?
A line of them trails off
each with a worse condition than the last.
Red lit spots suggest sores on the body.
Become illuminated by these zones.
With sleep, natural water
a time capsule could be
turned up again. The possibility
of odds--
Two Americans, same dishes divine, divine. She a whistle to her tone: the trip of life at 46.
Sought a painter who paints fish she loves fish wide and blue in water where no one swims.
Confusion with the chef who took responsibility for the art unknowingly. Back and forth.
Endless talks about blue gold gills.
I ain't fallen out of the turnip truck and that's
why I didn't take that room.
Beard webs to his plate: I have the smallest ability
for language-take some words, then lose others.
It is exact as a board game.
Making up a holiday
start by the water
I left first
straddling the Sea
Following the others
a procession
choose which rocks to see
Over the bridge
slopes dictate the way
below it shines
don't stop for reflection
If it's not after this turn
I failed
Church bells broke the waves. It was circular.
Today are prawns with heads ripped off
in a town, Monterroso.
To get there follow red markings.
But the group wouldn't settle our fears
so we ended up the hill
scratched.
Lizards and hummingbirds watched.
Up on the top there was a highway.
In the tunnel in fast motion
I sang opera.
Before, I walked above the train station missing you,
fell into a man who blocked my way.
I swore.
After prawns on the cobblestone street
in the middle
the plaza contained dancing.
Full figures unabashed
took the floor.
I can't lose my body. I'm membered by its attachments.
I will receive more blankets from her if I can find the house.
There is no phone. Her husband smiled and she had red hair and that was that
story. I am working on getting loose. The cats in every direction appear
aimless. The people knocking at the door. No not available just yet,
but almost. Perhaps it is the smell of water that is doing this. Perhaps with culture
everything can heal. The hole will shrink.
e-mail the poet at firestonj@newschool.edu
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