Regular Poetry

 

The coffee was steaming when Doc took off his wig

we didn’t even know he was wearing.

We found a hat within a hat.

Two years before, Lorca shredded me

with a flower stinking like an overripe melon.

That was for I thought I knew better.

Another hat emerges and someone kicks it.

It hurts, like reading a poem with an understanding,

an oar passing over the water, dripping in an orbit

only a few astronomers can comprehend.

Finally You

Last night we finally got wind of the new greeting card. It sounded like shrimp head or lunch pail. But those are things of profound sadness and we decided to rename it, like houseboat or inscribed straggle. It now appears under your pillow like air pocket or  willful sample of a lonely tooth. We suppose it is like wine wasted on the telephone. But we are similarly misled, and it is like the Indian Ocean. Hint it is written like leaf with a passion or long yellow Septembers. From the window we look out onto the slipperless streets. The mailman uses his telescope as an alias. He carries the mail like a deceased brother at a New Year’s Eve party. We don’t take it personally, but are happy when he’s gone. He is a normal letter carrier. Like shag over the ballpark, or nightgown obviously not stitched, funny simple novel or two smiles playing, nothing is heavier than a nickel but the sweet fronds of thought melting like butter between a sandwich, Japanese blooms in fall or hints not unlike statutes left in the rain. In words a thank you letter finds you amid the postcards, taxidermied pigeons, napkin notes.