I walk into a room, to see what’s going on.
Wolves and worms and cats, somehow, have made it
on the train – to where? I scan the place, congested
space, to find the nearest glade –
Honey music is there now. Bunny music makes them
run – you say I don’t know how a Modern Language
can function as a gun, but she says she knows Shakespeare
and Queen Jane is on the bus right now.
Memories mambo into place. As he sits down next to me
to begin the interview, an alarm goes off but to its
chagrin, the room stays still and silent. Her hair is full
to the brim of noises when she says “You’re a pig” and keeps
one hand in her boyfriend’s pocket, the other clutching
chapstick and popping the cap. When they come into the room
to check our chemical levels, we are pleasantly
surprised to find them all like lambs. I say “I can’t do this
now!” and they follow me away, while Orpheus plays
his lovely drums on the stomachs of a Greek chorus
as they sway.
Still shadows line the study; wind shakes
the shutters outside. The dust dares not move,
though I catch a ladybug considering.
The room I have left bare and bald, knowing
that stark surfaces can nourish the warmest
colors. Look, there, at this moment --
at least fourteen shades of fuchsia now fill
the vacant walls, and the place with the pond
appears glimmering with glimpses of starry
tortoise shells and alligator eyes.
Two and two, and two, two more
and mine are ten plus nix
plus sleepy flickers of infinite
infant eyes, fluttering between wild, mild marine
dreams and tiptoed steps into an abyss.
Most babies are illogical, but then
how would children be? Like gentle mice
and kittens leaping softly from their garden
knowing more of them than I will ever know
of she. The pond glistens as we row until at last
the shady side is reached. Her hair is like the afternoon,
her fingers delicate and slight, plucking daisies
almost like she could pluck stars out
from the night.
organ of criticism