Harmony Button

[When the rain breaks]

 

    When the rain breaks, finally

slipping from the thunder

        that has rumbled and blown itself

    dry heat and dust

around and down

        the valley here for --

    (it has been weeks since any water

        broke from this wide sky, this wide mouth

    of desert sigh like a desire

and the wind keeps thrusting her, as if she likes it

            deep and thunder dry

    but weeks and weeks and yet -- why, why)

 

    When the rain breaks, 

                and the wind dies,

the peach tree ceases its wide circles, branches slowly flailing

        like a drowning man,

                     and that fat eye

    of sun, the one that wants her like a fuck he's having

                        but still can't quite have

goes soft -- 

 

    a blink, a gesture of completion

    an exhale

        exultation

    

    so soft,

    so soft,

 

        the water runs in rivulets across the roofs and roads,

            along the gutter in a gurgle that suggests that 

        it was always so, somewhere this rain was certain tea,

            and now, even when we longed for it long time

        its coming was a softness, and the grass unclenched her fists

 

 

    and the peach twists open cleanly in my hands

    and salt burns on my lips.

 

 

The Origins of Music

 

    were mysterious to her: at what point

did someone draw a line between 

        the sounds made by her mother's arms and

    the sounds made in her mouth?  

Sugar was called sugar and

    tongue was called bad language --

            never say that, they said, never

    which made everything delicious:

forbidden words rattled, seed-like in the husk

        of some new instrument, something shimmery

    and shakeable. 

 

 

Things Which Restore Faith In My Ability To Handle It 

 

Anything that yubbers 

    like a holler, woodwind or that deep seesaw

of the lower organ.

 

The newest nub of aloe 

    nudging from the female

center of two loaves meeting. 

 

Stamps of approval:

    red ones, blue ones, 

official and initialized. 

 

Seed beads, flax seeds, 

    kindly postmen and crushed ice,

something in a garden that is cobalt blue.

 

Thick paper that yellows, aging 

    to patina in a basement. Anything 

I've carved into an opal, or a spoon.

 

 

Mr. Cicada's Escort Service

 

The client desires some time alone

to think. The client wishes to be 

somewhere darkened and enclosed,

preferably where the roots are moist

and nutrient rich, and the earth above

can press softly on his larval body

like a plushy thunder blanket.  As

those contracted to attend his pleasure,

we must respect his wishes.  If the client

says he can't commit to when 

the right time to emerge might be, 

we must trust his instincts.  How

will we know when he's come

back to the surface? Why, because

the sucker promises to don a top hat,

sing a siren to the heart of Dixie,

and then dance us all out of our

sorry skins.  See them, stiff and 

glistening, gems of past-selves

and shed worries, clinging fierce

and delicately to the bark of trees. 

 

Can I Eat That

 

    So long to days of 

trust your nose. So long, popsicle. 

So long, chard. Today the lettuce root

is thick as my wrist, twisted red and 

the kind of white that only comes 

from underground. So long, summer.

So long now.

 

    The dog is licking the sweat off

my neck.  The dog is licking his own

paws. The dog is licking something

dirty that he brought inside. The wind

makes the world wave all its hands.

Hello, hello. 

    

    When the wind kicks up,

it blows the middle number off my house.

The needles flick down off the trees,

pinpricks of time passing on the skin. 

The biggest may be dying. Its branches

shed and gather, sound like rain.

Posted on May 14, 2015 .