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Two poems

but the mind has no care
absorbed in June's warmth
the body takes over it
laughs the
mind shakes its head if
it has one
if it has none
it shakes it
just shakes
with laughter
two principles play
at hide & seek
trellis work of
shadow & light
lies on body in mind
candle awaits evening
trellis plays loose &
fastens mind
the order of order
takes care of
mind the share of light
of darkness fails
to account for the sound
of these colors flowers
turn in visible wind –
there is knowing
outside perception
no knowing inside either
inside dawn
flutter of expectation
leaning on time
to come to bring
what never happens

on back porch
awaiting dawn through a
curtain of rain. to write
whatever. quod
libet all the unwritten
letters to you. and you.
and you. The noise of rain
on the brain. Do not
mention pens. Wet dogs'
bark. Do not mention rain.
A quarter is a small
space, except when it's
empty. Rub Al Khal. Long.
7, Lat. 20. Dry spice
Rub Beefy Rancho
Roll-Ups. American
spirit: organic poison.
I wish I were in
Sa'ana. No news is old
news. A break in the clouds.
No joke. She sleeps through
it. Not the Latin quarter either.
The pont Mirabeau. He
was a strong swimmer. They
say. Which leaves a doubt. Do
you need a doubt? Bridge careful
coffee. This morning. Every
morning. Still or again the
back porch the front porch &
back again a smoked cigarette
now that rain don't mention
it has stopped
the kids play ball scooter down
Madison Place. Here there is no
room for no doubt. Yelling clear pleasure
& excitement. Every fact is a
miracle. There can be no doubt.
This is the back porch again 5 a.m.
nicotine it is not a moth it is a bee.
the night bee circles the light.
Tighter, more wound up then
any moth. Bounces off the
oddly honeycomb shaped surface
of the porch light. Goes into
darkness. Now a small
mosquito. Thoughts of stag-
nant water. Here by the Hudson
West Nile diesease. Pont
Mirabeau. Drowned in a
poem. Birds & mosquitoes.
All places now contemporaneous in
the body. No room for
contempt. The birth of Mithrias
from homesteads. Mystery of
a postcard A. sent from
Newcastle. Paying tribute
to the dead.
Barry MacSweeney, poet,
friend. A birthing card
cycles between the
three of us, the
wheel of Samsara
wheel of common
wealth &