The Choice of Dogs
and other poems
Pablo D’Stair
Copyright © 2011 by Pablo D’Stair
BlankVerseDead/SmashWords Edition
The Choice of Dogs
You will see another thing in dogs, and it is a wonderful thing in the creature. Whenever he sees a stranger, he is angry, although the man has done him no harm; when he sees anyone he knows, he welcomes him, although the man may have done him no good. But there is something refined in that feeling in his nature, and it shows a real love of wisdom. Because he recognizes friendly and hostile looks simply and solely from knowing one and not knowing the other. Then how could he not be a lover of learning if he distinguishes his own and others’ by understanding and ignorance?
-Plato
I
you only see refined as smoothed
(such a transgression)
the textures are lost
(saying each other’s names to each other)
it slips around you drowning you
(laying with each other in each other’s
arms)
smooth and soft as water
(or such a dream)
I remember touching your back
(hopeless from waking)
the first time for me that
rainwater had warmed it
(in waking
it loses its distinction)
your arms smelled as though
someone had bled on them
(did we dream and wake)
(do we wake and dream)
when the fabric was pulled away
(each other’s names arms hands dreams)
we talked of what ash would
(in each other’s absence)
be left from burning a stain on stone
and love would be easier
(like that)
if it were only a trick
(like a little girl)
and I only needed to make you believe it
(like a little girl look at me)
(you think like a child
thinks like a story)
I try to recall the last time
I believed the first things we spoke of
any more than when a woman looks
at me
when a child looks away
it doesn’t mean anything
II
if it breaks apart it breaks
with no one watching
like an art composed of winds at peoples’
back
if it breaks it breaks apart because
we’ve all grown too weary as
support
who talks about wisdom to comfort
children at night
who thinks of fear at night
when trying to compose calm words
wisely
(everybody
everybody)
and now I seek for contradiction
and finding none
grow tired
III
I love her cold in winter cold
warmth that looks to couple with
the cold warmth that looks
to rest
I love her cold in winter cold
the words less frequent with
the cold the eyes sharp and cold
heavy, cold and tired
(I love her cold in winter cold)
the gestures not lingering but
frozen
the ideas not staying but
frozen
the images not clear on cold
glass but
blurred on freezing water
IIII
there is certain thinking thought only
when sitting
certain thought only when
kneeling down
there are certain things wished for only when
laying down in the dark
certain things only
when laying oneself back down at dawn
I have never felt the impatience of the paralyzed
I have never breathed a breath
with numb feeling
feeling nothing in my chest
I have never thought of the first words to write
at the page head
only hundreds of somewhat formed
progressions in the center page margin reverse
(only your name written and circled or left uncircled)
but there are evenings when
in some sound I turn at
I think of the last words and want
never to write them
(while I try still and patient to think
of the first)
(attempts at screaming
managing only my god or please god
please without god
your name or nothing)
V
is there no space left here for you to answer
have other voices entered in
sounding as nothing nothing of you
is there no space left here for you to stand
have other bodies leaned further in
smelling like nothing nothing of you
is there no space left here for you to lay
have thin walls grown thicker and closed
leaving no room nothing for you
for if you don’t stand here
if you don’t lay here
if you don’t answer me
what is there left
(where have you gone
when I turn I convince myself you are still behind me)
(when I turn, again I tell myself there are still
more directions)
(I say If I just wait)
(never finish)
I say If I just wait
VI
though, in the end
aren’t there other names
aren’t there other moments
aren’t there others things to say
in regard to everything
haven’t you been elsewhere
and elsewhere aren’t there other bodies there
haven’t you let other thoughts move
somewhat over you
and other words are other hands
other hands are other mouths
other mouths spoke words
that you sighed
in other moments wanting
weren’t there other evenings
other things you refer to somewhat, sometimes
sometimes don’t you think you were there
alone
weren’t there other laughters
or is there only one
aren’t I just as well as someone else
returned to so easily when someone else’s done
don’t we all say things to say something else
aren’t we all someone to be someone else
haven’t we all asked every question
weren’t we all trying to whisper our answers
(laughing pretending denying response)
(it is a trick to decide
when no decision is needed
when it is already written
and the slant of the letters is yours)
(there is nothing better than a body asleep
sleeping arms on top of sleeping chests
sleeping legs under warming sheets in
worn in rooms near shallow breaths)
the easiest promise is the most difficult
not to listen when promised to
(or not to examine them)
the only promise is the most silent
of them
(the promise not spoken)
(the promise made and not shared)
(promise me something)
(I’ve already promised you something)
(then just say something to me)
and I can wait
until you are ready
VII
the rest of the time what are we doing, exactly
when we recall it is it not more of a
commingling of things we forget
the rest of the time
just don’t touch me again
(we’ve, before, not touched each other
in each other’s arms and
we’ve, before, not touched each other
in each other’s arms)
and we’ve, again not touched
each other in each other’s arms
(you should not have touched me)
we should have let other things define us
the air in places between places
the things we both remembered
VIII
there were those silences dull, heavy with longing
days alone, dull, heavy, longing
and now there are hours that are so desperate
there are hours that are hours
all that hours are composed of
everything that cannot be defined
before there were days years there were days
years that were nothing
everything that had already been, known
what shall we say
that then we were safe
that now we are saved
(when I laugh I do not
know what laughing is)
and when I stop I think
I never stop
VIIII
and pens these dirty instruments
and the games we play with ladies
faces on paper
we make love, slow
conversation, the best words
slowly remembered repeated
and I recognize you in every sign of aging
in the cuff, this woman’s shirt
the blue along her wrist
the red thin on eyes corners corners of lips
and every word is the same voice
and every voice is not the same
(her hands do not close the way she wants them to close)
and I, again, am in love
I fall in love, again
and in private everyone’s pride
is repeating someone else’s words
(I say my name
because she said my name)
I say these are your words
you spoke them
(I say I am
where words spoken have gone)
X
I know her from other hands
on her, know her
in the voice of others touch
of others
know the softer breathing softer
now in beds discarded covers
(I kiss you so often you’re not there and
I kiss you so often, you’re not there)
we’re neither of us neither of us
(everybody)
always rested, but rested
stood
rested with fatigue for company
fatigue for food
fatigue for motion against
parlour, brick, wood
her mouth is to another man
we can watch it opened closed
(we can wait here wait here
think of other things
remark the detail in the lining of his coat)
we can follow his hands
with our eyes opened closed
at one length her arms suggest motion
at another are still heavy slow
she’s soiled by me soiled by
thoughts I don’t know
say something about serenity
interrupt everything by asking me
to tell you the truth
for no reason at all
forget what we’ve said before
we name flowers by color
memory by day
in certain moments lost
in a fiction of names
we’re brown hair on suit coats
brown hair on pant cuffs
brown hair brushed from over
eyes brown hair
from long neck backs brushed
we’re dark hair, red
dark hair grown thin
dark hair collected in
bathroom sink drain
(we’re cold water pooled, warming
or umbrellas left wet and spread
long shadows over prints
our feet leave in dirt, sand, wet on
colored pavement
we do not consider our own)
we’re brown hair blonde, dark
hair named for flowers
we’re hair, red we’re moments
called purple and gray
(we’re salt tasted from finger sides
hair curled, trimmed, tousled
hair laid to our backs while
we lay awake on each other’s)
arms forgotten beside us
numb
lightly soft around us
air thicker than in our chests
XI
the passage of air is indistinct
a whimper, nondescript
a stolen moment, indiscreet
who are gentlemen, city streets
who are wives, new necklaces
in their husbands pocket
new shoes, worn the first time
out in evening
Thursday Friday
evening middle of the week
I pretend I have another name
that she was only talking
to herself
of me
just a moment’s thought
not a moment’s motion
not two steps away from me
three mouths
still, it reminds one of a
dour look
a pout upon a lovers face
it reminds you that you need
not be yourself
that there are others and others
others and others
others and others
(the suggestion that nothing is true)
still, we should be dimly
undescribed
to each other hardly seen
not discerned
there is fatigue as
men become words words become things
things specificities
breathe soft harsh
or don’t breathe at all
(breathe soft harsh)
only if the words are believed
true
if each lash had really fallen
if each wound unhealed
is unhealed
XII
you only see refined as smoothed
the textures are lost
it slips around you drowning you
smooth and soft as water
such a transgression
saying each other’s names to each other
laying with each other in each other’s
arms
or such a dream
hopeless from waking
in waking
it loses its distinction
did we dream and wake
do we wake and dream
each other’s names arms hands dreams
in each other’s absence
I remember touching your back
the first time for me that
rainwater had warmed it
your arms smelled as though
someone had bled on them
when the fabric was pulled away
we talked of what ash would
be left from burning a stain on stone
and love would be easier
if it were only a trick
and I only needed to make you believe it
like that
like a little girl
like a little girl look at me
(you think like a child
thinks like a story)
any more than a woman looks
at me
when a child looks away
it doesn’t mean anything
I try to recall the last time
I believed the first things we spoke of
foreign caress of slight rain
I
quiet quiet
quiet as eyes closed
or mouths open
waiting for months
a little while thinking of
a color called
Carmichael
girls like waifs
like wraiths bemoaned
beguile
they part as rain falls
they pause
as glances to stares
they lay, the light
that is cooled
in the water collapsed
they breath out
and all instinct waits
without peace
until they breath back
II
we spend dreary days lolled
inside of glass, streaked, warm
smiles after heavy breaths
or cold days are spent under cotton
under thoughts washed of wine, our coats
hung and long since
past properly departing
we leave tumbled hair
and brows discolored
all cold over lips cold
from iced beverage
pressed all to a business
every day quite soft, at first, tentative
each and every day a while spent
under clothes
a while spent
under bodies under every kind of weather, already
waiting already again while we wait
sing this, stop a measure
I’ll regard that you’re a bit taller
than I comfortably remember
admit you’ve gotten somewhat older
and scent’s changed to lavender
while I was gone
III
the difference was the name of the month
of the day to dark night to
the evenings we remembered for livid cloud covering overhead
I said I just couldn’t see
I said I needed nothing
I said I’d no desire
I said all of my prayers are empty
and so begged and begged and begged
(and so begged and begged and begged
again)
(begged and begged and begged)
one who does not consider
the alternates of words
who takes only one breath
at a turn
who sleeps both in blanket
and in dirtied clothes
turning over turning over
turning over
IIII
you said you were my autumn
in the spring
you aren’t autumn you aren’t spring
said many things thin as between piled leaves
of scented
paper, leaves
waiting still dying to branches hopeless
to the wind
you said you weren’t winter and aren’t
winter
said you were a calm summer pallor
the heat outdrawn from long bodies strolling
humidity turning us a moment away
eyes a moment closed to gray yellow
opened slight again to green gray
what other colors
look now I’m reading these magazines
I’m melting you water from ice
touching your face with unwashed hands
the salt of fingertips on top
the salt of your hip
and a curiosity for each deeper wrinkle where
your cotton dress clings
like brown light through brown windows
of churches
our touches dusted our
breath
as passages in pages
turned closed
like brown hair in coils left to be cleaned from the floor
all our words unaccented by the motions we’d make
our lips praying to be devouring
the bodies for which we pray
the minutes long as
sentences half remembered
as long bodies on pale summer strolls
V
in your pocket there are promises
written out of ceases of need
there are marks, italic, to a palm
words Italian Irish hushed just under
a song
there are shadows under eyes down turned and
cast over corners cast shadows
and short time spent
alluding to different lovers on different
evenings with each other
with each slight time there’s a touch of breeze
and her hair quickly tucked in
a strand behind either of her ears
and alluding to different nights
not yet spent with her
and yellowed dust from matte of her older
photographs
a collection of
other glances left waiting
VI
why are we fingers to mouth
making believe cigarettes
why thick issue, crème, of smoke
over parted lips out let
why cold under coats under our own
arms wrapped
why restless across kitchen floors or restless
from streets to shop counters
comments like old lacquer on restaurant tables
why are we this and that
a sentence somewhere in a center
paragraph
a note somewhere across an octave
in a scale arpeggiate
why darling or why darling
why darling darling darling
VII
there is a beauty elsewhere
hidden deep while it’s in
this same night blue
hidden gray on mornings under clouds
and hidden from every eye that looks
and a beauty elsewhere
even while our arms surround us
even while our thoughts on
ice on winter water
differ
a beauty elsewhere that speaks
in different words, elsewhere
that speaks in rhymes
and groupings we ignore
or dismiss at their occurrence
beauty elsewhere
while we grasp it
while we stroke its
hair, our
fingernails unkempt
and a beauty elsewhere than
the edges we’ve torn from
our books crooked
the stanzas three lines
pages and a half
that we hurry to each other
burning with
there is a beauty elsewhere
we follow
begging
we turn our arm lengths open at
finger lengths we guess at
in long caresses down our backs
it is the sounds of scattering pavement
in small pieces kicked by
two people walking
making us think that love songs cost only a dollar
sleet in piles pushed through with
white damp tips of boots
loose laced
cuffed turns of pant legs cold and
held down under icy weight
the stamp of sun thawing numb coats
rough in circles around throats
rough at angles slanted
softly gripping waists
stamp of breath shown in the seasons air
stamp of street shop window light
of one light down alleys
of other windows blinds and light
(and why darling)
call me certain strokes in charcoal
or think of me as various articles
dangling off string
walked under each morning
above exiting doors
or else think of me in passing
think of the tensing sound of distance
growing narrow
soon there won’t be air between us
soon there won’t be time for checking
our appearances once again for pleasure
as we walk pace past the mirror
there won’t be time for
composing minuet or waltz
won’t be watches that we have to think
to wind or
addresses to take down roughly at a
scrawl, recopy, neatly
memorize
darling, soon there won’t be days
at all
VIII
now we can cry
uncomfortable in reclining where
we once before reclined
comfortable bathing only in water we
know is clean and never touched us
we can weep in tones
of hollow wood
we can shriek in pitches
we’ve heard others use
we can remember drugstores
and delivering in tranquil voices
verbatim lines and harsh review
we can remember thinking of dwellings
and thinking of how to count one hundred
out of seventy-eight
of how to count just one more
out of just one less
of how to move with nothing pulling after us
God, let’s just cry now
darling, call me darling
and don’t beg me
listen through the walls of other rooms
to be certain that my sleep is peaceful
look around corners where
I’ve looked for you
and cover your nights deep under deep soft stained covers
think of mornings as nights, nights
as sometime that once passed
think of me as every face
that you don’t recognize
every word you think I’ve said
her shoulder
pale oak brown against
a sky whose once details and textures
have now been all diminished and erased
a sky the white of clouds and
the gray with dirtied brown of clouds
empty save for the whimper
of what is left
of the moon with morning
and her hands clasped,
also white, in arches
white also in pressed
over white folded arms
and listen
from various voices in one third crowded sidewalks
whose men’s faces are
powdered watercolor
whose women
innocuous olive perfume
and listen
to the foreheads touched to foreheads
the shoulders touched to cheeks
to the hand backs brushing long coats
where they come to
where they cover the legs
listen to the truncated breaths out
closed in under our mouths
listen to the soft sound of
legs slightly bent to succumb
listen to all of the exaltations
on the taste of the dessert wine the foreign word café
for coffee the tincture of spice in the rum
VIIII
quiet quiet
quiet darling
and we’ll both stand there both still, listening
and quiet
we’ll stand no longer waiting
we’ll stand and idly take what words we choose
listen to the retreat and to all
the reasonable well measured declines
listen to them as architects
would keep heaven kept in with fine lines
and listen
these are the sentences, silences
movements of mouth only for touching the body composed
the movements, alone, that are remembered
by bodes in purposeful stretches reposed
it is of this of which the world consists
the length of hours lengthened into the trails of these last longing sighs
and of these still unbroken gazes
of mornings now long past unsaid good-byes
a song on an afternoon disappears
take away from her, first
the scent from off of her hands
the scent of dirt and dust
her hands now smell like neither
dirt nor dust
the scent of water, now, and so
her hands don’t smell like water
and the fragrant scent she has herself
applied
scent pink and rosewhite and roseyellow, blue
and peach
her hands no longer smell like pink and rosewhite
don’t smell like roseyellow like blue, peach
now, the scent of paper she once held
and the scent from her caressing her own
shoulder
the scent of men’s hair she has
held
and so she does not smell like paper
and caresses, her shoulder
men’s hair
her hands are lost to scents, now
and they have withered at the ends of
her arms
guess at her name one letter at a time
and she will smile while you do
she will wait while you do
guess at her smile one breath at a time
and she will sigh while you do
she will wait while you do
guess at her sigh for hours at a time
and she will sleep while you do
she will wait while you do
guess at her sleep one night at a time
and she will dream while you do
she will wait while you do
guess at her dream one dawn at a time
and she will wake while you do
she will wait while you do
guess at her waking, looking to the drinking glass
near the windowsill
guess at her hands, moving the wrinkles of the bed sheets
beside her
guess at her
and she will wait
and take from her, next
the length of her limbs
the length of her hair
the length of her lashes
the length of her breaths
take from her, next, the length of her lower back
the length of her cheeks
the length of her sleeves and her skirt
take from her the length of the mornings alone
the length of the evenings half asleep
the length of the stroll she takes
down the avenue now it is gotten chill
and is dark but for streetlights cold
take from her the length of those flower stems
the length of those paragraphs
the length of those photographs
the length from the bed to the floor
and now tell her Wednesday and Thursday
and Sunday
and now tell her March and September
July
and now say her ankle and neck nape
knee back and sole
and now say her laughter and coughing
her little posture
purposeless saunter, melancholic stroll
can you also have the feel of the soft hairs
when you press your mouth to her wrist
ask her about periods, commas
her hands darting, asterisk
can you have also the sharpness of her neck
when her head is recoiled from you
ask her about the temperature of bath water
ask about songs you’ve not heard
and then take from her the way she just now is turning
the angle she’s looking to, now
the one hand on the other hand, now
the both hands set around her shin, now
the look of her forehead pressed into her knee
take from her one reason for weeping
take one reason for closing her eyes
take one reason for walking in circles
around cluttered tables, emptied bags
take one reason for empty hours
take one reason for her face on a warmed pillow
not sleeping
is there enough longing for this
not enough longing for this
enough loneliness if it were all left alone
remember the shadow
remember the layer of dust
and also the sound from the overturned clock
by the dresser drawer
is there enough wanting in this
not enough wanting in this enough difficulty in choosing these words
remove the table salt
remove the unused forks
and also the rolling, full bottle spilling
on the kitchen floor
pretend you don’t notice when it is all gone
you don’t notice it ever was there
you don’t notice the room is empty, not white
not even vague yellow tints
or the green, the red of closed eyes
pretend that you’ve also been taken away
your scent and length and reason
has all been wiped soft clean from her
not even vague orange light lingering
or the blue, the purple of closed eyes
remain
take that away from her, now
the means of vanishing sparrows
I
I know she speaks
as though her words are haunted
sings as though her songs
are haunted
breaths as though she is gone
and those other boulevards
with that glass that’s scented cigarette
and drying leaves we kick
along
and those emptied pockets into rubbish bins
also scented snow and dirtied tin
and I know how to steal my memories
from these wisps of air we move
through
and laying flat I better hear
the mutters of her song
I hear the mutters of her song
I’ve not forgotten words that went like
Palisades and Warming Gloves and words
that went like sounds of baying trains
and coughing through the fog
or water that got cold while I’m reading
or cold while I shivered and read
and she purring so silently
like she’s just soft soft like she’s just
soft and just pretend
how else could the weather have been
rain and dry
nothing and rain, again
what tickets or little purses little coats
what radio music that sounds a lot like some
winter month or some middle week or
Tuesday Tuesday ten and nine o’clock
and look because even while
she empties looks on the backs of
men whose eyes she’s glanced out of
windows from she’s glanced into corners
from
even while she empties looks like the last
mist of old perfume
even while she empties looks on empty rooms
she’s bashful, reminiscent
of all those quiet night encounters with
shadows still cast on other shadows
darker than we think we are
and softer than most shadows are
she’s beautiful, reminiscent
of those things we want to see those animals
we want to be
those things we’ve said that we believe
we disbelieve
and she’s a night of wine without
singing
without saying what she wants
what she wanted
who she was a song or two
gone by
she’s wine that’s emptied our voices
and words that are heavy scents
and stains on our lips in the
morning
it’s as though mornings were spilled out
dirty and wiped at until spread to
seem clean
as though footfalls sound in mezzanines
and the legs grown weary
pacing
but I know she thinks as though
her thoughts are chased and tired
as though her thoughts are so fatigued
they laugh at
the same things the same things
little passages torn from magazines
little corridors and flights of stairs
set in between little underlines
remarks fit into margins little kisses
clipped like fingernails little kisses blown
as offhand as the dust that’s cleared from
hands against pant thighs
before undressing
and I know that September was purloined
and all our motions were
counterfeit
borrowed remembered from
other Septembers
and like our other lives that we’ve
bled with our own
I know that love has stopped rhyming
and we don’t perspire and no longer
ridicule the moon as it
slinks whispering past us
her eyes closed shut like debtors won’t
spread their hands to
beg
and she rearranges thoughts
in silence and pouts her lips
instead
she knows caresses and
fingers over novel spines
and old embraces warm enough
her favorite words the
oldest kind
II
though what if her every breath
is some ghost of a
certain kiss
some lover once gave to her
what if her breath is all
that remains, just, of how
she once breathed
and if her scent is just
apparition
just all that once covered
what is now gone
all that once carried reckless on
winds that have ended out
to breezes stale and to
voices calm
her scent just the scent
that flowers
all strewn and vanished
once had
could she have once smelled
just how my empty hands
will
is she a scent I’ve just mistaken
that’s only apricot
or pear
or if her every breath
is some ghost of a particular word
some lover once put to her
a lie she’s forgotten
they told
a promise she’s forgiven
they’ve broken
having made never meaning to
hold
III
and now let’s watch her
in these nights that are pencil marks thin
nights that are pencil marks thick
over them
nights that are things
scribbled over in pen in the dark
now let’s watch her
quiet praying
quiet in timid thoughts
feet cold inside her socks
ankles numb to her own touch and
beneath a blanket while she’s lost
in a room that’s lit by lamps and daylight
listen to the way she shifts her weight
and wipes a moment at
her lips
listen to the television
look at the face of the clock
and all around we have the air that’s
left of conversations
and the wind that’s left of last nights
walk that teased our hair
around us
oh no, we don’t see anything
I don’t see anything these
images are only words that aren’t
even remembered
they’re the dust blown by fans in closed
rooms and
there is not even distance to distinguish
a face from a hand a
back from a bookend there’s
not even space to suggest distance and
fear
oh no, we don’t see anything
with these eyes that can determine exactly
the color of those
those colors we can’t name with
colors
but only with words we’ve invented
or stole
yet I cannot say whether she is
a snake or is
a stone
she understands words more like
the times of day
like evening or twilight
five eleven
six nineteen
and can say Night so that
it rhymes with April
and can say Cold Water so that
it rhymes with Please
I know words that are her
arms that move her
back and eyes so distant that
they reflect a flat and smooth and mild green
that’s nothing
and also those milling girls who wait
offhand on platforms
their gazes that blur
like cigarette smoke blown out through funeral
veils like kisses blown out through bridal
veils that blur like thoughts while months
and months and months are
waited through
but what about when May is long
as though it is May and another half May
or March goes on
as long as March
and March
March and March
and March, again
and the only two seasons are
night and day
and we only tell time by
the sea
and tea gardens
and we pour our wine out
wine and bourbon and our
cigarettes lit into the waves
so that they can burn away
while we get tamed and tired
from watching
burn away to warm us
with our two blankets and
each other’s arms while we
sleep or think of things to say
sit without hands between
our teeth
do we think that This could have been
They or March could have been May or We could have been She Alone
and forced to rhyme with
Bourbon or
Burn Away
the winter aplomb
I
and we’re all dressed like songs from
glutton nights
halved gloves and old topcoats fallen in love with
while we smoke and mutter
loose talk and quiet under browned dulled lights and
under leaves so full with holes
they still would shiver even if not for being caught fast
by the cold
numb to these branches and our
numb legs in our pant legs and our shoulders slack
from shrugging and from stretches
you stamp a foot
and make remark
of the metered cars of the metered cars and I think
call everything on purpose by their wrong names
argue that purple’s not purple and plum is not plum
and an hour is gone when an hour’s not gone
and I see passing women make glances
to and from your shaking hands
I make glances to and from your shaking hands
and guess wrong when you ask me for guesses
also a long hint of fragrance
also the nighttime as thin as a
cotton bodice
also the way tired eyes close shut like
silk coats unbutton
the way breaths are thick from the morning next day
II
think of some names to call us
this or perhaps this or perhaps this
know the hum of the radio
the dim cough of a song
know the steps from the second floor
the vestibule
crossing the lawn
think of some flavor to have
peppermint or perhaps apple perhaps licorice or weak
chamomile tea
know the offset papers bent
the place where the stamps are kept
know the steps from the bedside edge
to the windowsill
to the bed
III
for us the week is Friday Monday Saturday
Sunday Thursday Tuesday Wednesday
we alphabetize into columns or else to tatters
we misplace looks as easily as sips, between words, of chill wine
we stand, collapse
smooth collars, skirts, blouse backs, neckties
recline
and for us time is hours, minutes
seconds is evening, morning, night
is eight eleven five four one
nine seven six ten three twelve two
our alphabet is cuts of heels and toes
that clatter on marble
of strangers coats in timid green
in houndstooth, herringbone and wearied burgundy
IIII
a few things less still to
carry
regarding latecomers and the way that
they pace
the way that their watches from rear
pockets
tissues from behind
coats’ left side lapels
the way that they touch so precisely this and that
itch in their face
hands dangle and from fingers
valise
are we speaking or are we
only letters, now, letters stretched
like stripes pulled so taut
that they creak
though certain evenings doesn’t it almost quite seem
that long coatbacks cling only by
mistake
or we sigh our ideas
but don’t mean anything but the listing off
addresses of galleries
certain hues used but not others
the way books are bound
the pages oranged and blued gray and browned
and wines that are not
so much to our taste
Opulent
I
the moon is quite mistaken and lowly irresponsible
with clouds for awkward
words
and shameful, it is shameful, shameful
cats all ashambled
eyes blinking in silence, misnamed
or misheard
unelaborate
and I haven’t seen children
for years
the animals all have pined for more
winter trees
tilt on haunches
have smokes to their lips, tails
underneath them, they’re wastrels
and willows
they turn down their heads a pinch, embarrassed
and the frozen things they are
the loveliest
they always are the loveliest
how they’re buried in just the
inch of air around them
without a malice
just watch how cold they are
to touch
and how cold they are they touch
II
all evening, all evening, all evening we repeat
somber evening introductions
III
the dirtied pails are peppered music
and architecture hard pressed
for another dime
but I’m the mirror behind
the mirror glass
a new finger touching the same pillowtop
as though it were a table scrap
the sunlight’s a kind of pout
with broken bubbles all along it’s
lower lip
something that should be
closer, perhaps, but
rather keeps its distance
a dog that should be closer, a matchbook
that should be closed
the sunlight that’s over
her mouth today’s
more distant than the sun has ever been
but the roofs are only trinkets and only
have suspicions
teeth that come up after having
bitten coins
belongings that feel deceived
they only look down and
they shiver no harder for the snow
than from the rain
IIII
no, there’s not been sound for weeks, for weeks
there’s not been pipes for playing
V
the paper bags are trifling jokes we’ve told belatedly
and are slaps of feet to the
slush
then the beginnings of other
acquaintanceships
piddling piddling touches and speeches spoke low
spoke arrogant
yet the coffee steam is well mannered and
keeps always a strict posture as it moans
there are protests of other
seasons, here
and shoulders that stiffen as they rest and then
shoulders that cringe like
book centers squeak
(so that the painted things are scented of midnight ground)
of the drunk of shoes in time yet
not
a gesture made out to the left as though
the lot were not a midnight parking lot
but the one from years ago
or else umbrella,
marred cinema
something
described as through
a telephone
VI
no, there are no more and cannot be more of
wish than of misgiven
your own name, dampened
I
when for hours there’s
merely our hands pawning touches
or eyes leering, stammering
or reclining, caresses
you cannot help it
go remarking
of pasteboard and carpet
of hair color’s all that we’ve
quite had in common
while sometime, you say sometime
a demure curl to mutters
and remarks to cool
breath from cold lips
and to tantrum
some slight tastes
of lemon or
cigarette
persimmon
mint tea
and coat buttons
unbuttoned
shaking hands in damp mittens
in side pockets
in numb closes of pinching closed fists
II
we’d rather the tatters of names written
to telephone sides, the
rainwater from slack
cuffs, from sodden
umbrella
and guess at the
best times to go and the best words to turn
our footfalls into patters
of penciltips, lowercase words half underlined, scribbled and
our footfalls soft to paper
still damp with the touch
of the sides of
our hands
III
we’ve collected some old
brochure of theatre
performance and slipped
the halved leftovers of
tickets to billfold slips
in rented coat jackets
and come up with names
for the cats
in the alley trash and the
glances we give
in the trolley car glass
while we think of the part or the
page or the touch
we left off on
the vestibule
tiled lobby
vacuumed scent of a corridor
of the gestures, the man
of months, recitals
ticket prices and roundabout
you pace like the light through the front door
to mirror glass and eyes closed
you massage
your own back
in yawns and
bracelets still clutched fast
to washed, dried still
damp wrists
IIII
though aren’t the pale longs of our
fingerlengths to the lines left
by the cold air and where the cotton
of our cotton trousers bent to
them something like words the animals
might use to name themselves
to their longings to name their
nights alone and hours more
and hours less and something else
something else
something less than
barks and mutterings than growls
and mews and clacks of
bitten sing-song
V
so don’t we touch like slept on
pillowcases and aren’t we lost
like long spent coins, so
we don’t sleep or talk of
sleeping or count the fingers of
the hands we’re on
or ask about the water we’ll
use to cool our necks to wet
our faces warm our hands
or ask about the last of the borrowed
dresses the borrowed socks the
forlorn forced forward
caresses
we’re just as soft as dust that’s
settled long, colors the cupboard’s knobs
the window’s latches
we’re just as soft as cautious
remarks
the damp dish towels and tin
clock faces
so don’t we touch like eaten
bread and aren’t we lost
like rains to wrinkling sea water
slate of pavement to the wrinkling
treads of an evening’s passage
aren’t we tongues that lap until
they pant
VI
why ask anything about the basins or the tiled floors, the
mattresses, the kitchen, mittens, the attic lake, the wardrobe
drawers, the mantle cracks, the way flames or light
or bleary eyes
say no one dreamt of anything say no hands clutched
for bedclothes and that we don’t sleep because
we don’t want and we’ll not know the
toys of our children or what coats our
mothers wore
VII
still, we can teach some melodies
we learned in passing
we can count the orchids,
marigolds poinsettias
still, we can recite some rhyme
or fit of coughing fit of
laughing clap flat palms to
piano blacks
we can coil our arms around
sides and curled backs
and twine hair in our fingers
and hair around our wrists
we can kiss knees and
ankle backs, toe tops and
center backs
we can touch our eye lashes
to closed eyes
and ask and ask
darling, do you feel that?
and answer
and answer
and answer
aren’t cloth
I
those unmeaning bent sounds the mumbles and coughs and hollows of
voices through windows that think
they are numbered alone
and uncoupled
unheard of, the voices of old paint and
shivering brick and the voices of old paint, again
maybe they can say to you things that only
you can move your body to
a dance or a stumble
you can lay down or sit down or stand
let them over your shoulders or their hands
under your hair fallen over
II
the moon is tired of being described
would long to be ugly
would long to be despised
the moon is tired of being forgotten
would long to have you look up at it, again
instead of the rusted dark through the open blinds
the pillowcloth over your closed eyes
don’t you say you hate the moon for its dresses its linens its perfumes its boredom
the way it gazes in love at the darkest part of the room
did the moon say you were certain paints old enough to be beautiful?
(and don’t you say you hate the moon for what it used to say it would never say)
did the moon say you were certain words cold enough to only be sung?
don’t you say you hate the moon for its singsong its empty bowls its bookshelves
the way it closes its eyes just when it most should be gazing at you
the moon is tired of being a moment that is only remembered at night
would long to be nothing
would long to be less than nothing
the moon is tired of being cotton
would long to be bronze scraps of metal with
wet cloth running over its neckback, its neckfront
or over the hard of its eyes
III
maybe they can sing to you songs that
sound sweet in languages known only to you
you can hum or just think
movements to
you can listen or sleep or not listen
let them under your blouses and their
cheeks rest to the back of your legs
those uncertain sounds the cricket and old wood and dogs of
papers read quietly behind closed doors that think
they are not alone
that think they have
eyes on them, their paint just cold enough
to almost be beautiful
IIII
we love women who
aren’t cord who aren’t
cloth
we love women who so
love these daubs of rue
and petals more without their
tethered flowers and stems
pulled from the garden ground
we see alligators who love women who
don’t regard
new written words and we see
wasps and shoes and
curled up rags and dishes
by licked wet fingers
cleared of food
we love women who
aren’t divined from sounds we make
alone
we love women who will
love their fingers and
their fingers in their gloves
and walls more without their
painting screws and prints of feet and longs
of beds beside them
we’re eyes that watch our mouths
and teeth that say what tongues first say
into them