Poetry

“Up!” she signals, syllabic cup
     meaning wherever I am now—up
or down—floor, high chair—change direction!—

It follows you everywhere,
I think, even this hillside
of mint and yellow gorse
on the far side of the sea,

the lake becomes a ghost. i decide
to lie down in its place. for comfort,
i polish its bed smooth, quilt a pallet 

Even here. Even now the heavy industry
of the everyday, making to be unmade,
where a word is the world between us.

the lake becomes a ghost. i decide
to lie down in its place. for comfort,
i polish its bed smooth, quilt a pallet 

In this day and age only a fool goes looking for the lost city. Drunks and suckers, or worse.

Like the pirates and revolutionaries of legend, heads spiked
atop the great bridge spanning the great city, I am now a head
without a body. Maybe the body ran away while I was sleeping,
slamming headless into walls and doors. Maybe my body...

If you were to shoulder a heavy bat
& beat one today, many decades after—

Barry was six-foot-six, fifteen like me, floating layups and hook shots
over our heads through the hoop in my driveway. We called him Big Bird
for dwarfing us, for his slappy feet, for the mouth that hung in a grin at all

Crucial early bark
   to learn, like dat?
Or no! The wooden ball