Friday, December 15, 2006


here's something soft for finals week. unfortunately the formatting is all messed up, and i can't figure out how to fix it.


12/14/2006

for c


breathless to say, outside it is beautiful
here where i am loving that time zones exist,
just spliced enough that they make me believe
you've got another hour of this


(only to forget of course that over in the Lone Star
the air is likely more solid, the gelatin
of clouds tingling foggy at your back
who knows how heavy the air is there)


i sit in the grass and whisper “bliss”
a few times to myself
buh-liss, buh-less, buh-lease
until the syllables elongate
and it begins to sound
like “please”

the way my lips part to start the word
each repetition softer, less pressure between,
the “buh” different when my lips meet
in the center or part closer
to the edges of my mouth


at noon a sudden lightness of form
like for clarity’s sake
i should always have a tripod
when the sun is making us wobble
from the eyelashes down


hand slanted into the sun
a holding pattern
as if i am dipping my tray
tipping my hat before
the possibility of health benefits
to a long shift of
serving chocolate cake in twos
pockets jangling with
sweaty tan
new york change


“give me your hand,” he said,
billfold visible, a twenty in the palm
thinking, sly, he could trick
the rattling curlyhaired
into imagined trust

once a man left me a $100 tip
"let's call it even and you
come work for me,"
he winked, one eyebrow unsymmetrical
handing me a business card,
impressively stilled it hung there
between index and middle finger


i giggled high enough for restaurants
smiled and slipped the small card
into my pocket, where, moist,
it molded to my hip,
my lighter, my pennies

i only found it later, when, bone tired
i sagged on the subway
the card’s edges dogged, its softened
paperstock insistent,

i read aloud the title “bliss spa” and,
laughing too loud for the 4-5-6
leaned back into the bucket
of the ripped plastic seat


from the last time I imagined “blissful”
i recollect the rearrangement of your shoulder under mine
the point of contact, the end point
a purposeful admission of the end of my limb,
a fingertip to point out where you dreamt

a pointed reddening at the cast of REM sleep, like
the edge of reason when it comes to meticulous collectors
the insane reminder that in spoons or bottled gin
there is always
something left
to bring back


i collect the idea of you behind my knuckles,
flatten my palm, place you somewhere dimmer
where the light slants low in triangles
a place with room for a lined shelf
I am thinking dark wood
that someday they’ll tint red


I recollect

collect the two pm sun skew
remember a collection of pews
recollect squinting shadowless into mold
reorganize a porch within the color green
re-member a lawnful of swingsets
re-place my fingers
with what is left of the grass

I re-collect bliss

and gather my toes to stand,
stretch
lightless
among wild violets


And, collecting,


discount an hour for the sake
Of Central Standard Time.

3 Comments:

Blogger Sturgeon General said...

That's a gorgeous poem. I feel like I was reading it in sand as it was diffused by the lapping of a languid river at dusk. Thanks, 'fris. It helped me meditate and forget for a second about this 16 pager.
(also, I edited your post to get rid of the html things ... but I'm not sure if I screwed up the size of the line breaks between stanzas... sorry)

8:55 PM  
Blogger Inga said...

i second. gorgeous poem, l.

sadly, i have been absent from this blog and will continue to be until i've successfully moved back to providence. next week. until then, know, all, that i am reading, watching, and appreciating. love, inga.

11:21 PM  
Blogger Adam said...

yes yes. I'm assuming this grew out of the earlier piece you submitted to BLR (yes?)...anyway, very cool.

7:51 PM  

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