Whose Eyes Were Watching God

the first thing the morning
landing on my finger
beautifully darkening drums
emptying like a fist fighting
til the infinite ceilings break
as bad as that my lucid
remains remaining where my eyes
fell well dusk fell well
footprints and the electric
outlet breath the muscle
faucet and mirror meetings
mooring throats and wonder
welling in the pockets of
cities and in rivers

Poem

The poem arranges itself

It is in first person

It is entitled poem
It has a color
It is from a book of poems
It slips outside when you are not looking
and lives another life
It is in time
It does not mock words
it is limited and repetitive
but unravels in front of a theater
and throws on a scarf
lives on an island
at the end of a century
the word noodle makes it sound silly
in a rather other worldly
series of ideas
it is your responsibility
it is skittish
it lacks what stars lack
and what planets lack
and looks in both directions
it thinks of itself as a country
or a fire started by apples
it sits beside a river
it lives alone
it has always wanted to live alone
it listens for insects
it knows its own secret
it sleeps in the doorway
and in woodpiles
it hates people
it loves your eyes and smile
it is neatly wedged in-between two pages
it is a promise that listened
it is memorized
and blistered
turns its face away
turns a cheek
it is not a structure
or a wire or milk
or entirely monogamous
it is the intermission
that awaits a good mind
it is placid like a bead
in a world of ever
expanding beads
a constant rehearsal
for oblivion
a bar full of hostages
it doesn't matter
a bait trap, fresh grapes
might be it
it is none of thee above
It is thinking of itself as a poem.

The Reading

And sometimes I dream

of being asked to read my poetry

at a very fine college.

I am picked up at the airport

or the train station

because of my poetic

disposition or for fear of flying

by a young poet too

who is full of nothing

but little bits of beauty

I enjoy the car ride.

I look out and see the landscape

I even think of a few lines

and jot them down
they will make a fine poem someday

I am well received
by the muffled voices as I pass
I have a wonderful dinner

and I don't have to pay

for any of it.

I meet the other poets

who teach there

and find we have a common friend
I tell them they have
found a good way to make a living.

I feel my ego rise like the head

of a giraffe, but when I understand

this I become quiet.

I give a good reading
I even have some good liner notes
which surprises me

I teach a class filled with admonishment

I sign my book
and the several others
that I have published.

the people at the college

are happy and say

they will invite me back.

Tossed

Tonight I
am tossed

by the great wave

It has thrown me

to where I

cannot tell

I know it

but I do not

know it

it has thrown

its waters into my mouth

and choked me
with its emptiness

I cannot fill it
with mud nor sand

but heavy silt

deposits in the branches

of the lungs and

brittle stars have taken

up residence until
I am as indistinguishable

as a shoal to a boat
When the tides change

my bones bleach like shells

poking through the sand

my heart cannot save it

nor can I fill or hold it.

Upon Hearing of a Poet I didn't Know had Died was Dead

You know I heard that poet had died
like an actor of any sort
that father used to talk
about as he sliced an apple
or pealed an orange
to share a piece with me.
As we watched TV.
"That is Ray Milland or that is Josephine--
He died, and she is dead" he would say.
I am young, we two are young
as he hands over his collection to me.

Finding this Poem in a Used Bookstore and Reading it

I might not be here with you
the old drum in the mountain

stars living separably apart
eyes blooming out of the hay

likely to sneeze the sleep off the shelf
or the one after that

kindly breaks the void
and free rises in showers

into the warm garage where sits your heart
and my thermometer compact with autumn

that I am as good as watching you now
for all you cannot see me

Visiting James Merrill

If you picture this architecturally
we were both looking through
a two-way mirror at each other
the way one might look
in the morning into his eyes
with heartfelt exploration
He was there alone
before or after the rush of similes
of wit before humans
were to come in and ruin it
no voice, no words
to break the law of silence
no voice, no words, but poetry
suspended and we looked
from between the bookshelves
at each other and then up at it.