Home again, home again, jiggity jig. Well, I'm starting to go a little stir-crazy. How are you all doing? I'm so glad it's at least Spring, and we can enjoy the beautiful daffodils and other blooms just starting. I think if this Coronavirus happened during, say, November, it would have felt ten times worse--all that darkness just amplifying our solitary-ness.
I have a poem here in Midway Journal. I tried to do a poem a day this month, as it is National Poetry Month, but did not make it. I got a handful of poems, luckily, but it felt particularly onerous to try and write daily. I'm working from home and feel chained to my computer anyway. Maybe May or June will be a good month for that. Who knows when we're ever going to be able to hang out at a bar again, soon.
The bacon laid to rest. The belly of the dishwasher satisfied
at last. Oh, satiated coffeed world with your mind
how have I come to you again?
In the crash of weekday waves breaking
that hefts this ball of earth, its rotation part ritual,
part benediction. How I covet the hours
of banal and quiet tasks; picking up the magazines,
shaking out the doorstep's mat.
or fathom a future form. From here it's nothing
more than alliteration of motion. Though the calendar
all attempts at formulation remain null.
Tomorrow I will don my grease-coat of complaint,
and admire the way the shore so soon becomes
the ocean floor.
And the eggs have been broken.
in reverse and your soft body bound in flannel sheets,
on the splintered porch, in the gravity and weightlessness
we will spend in the endless hedge grove
In the yellow state I am in I cannot divine the day
pinned to the kitchen wall gapes in silent notation,
my lab-wear of ego. I will stand in the doorway
from Verse Daily