THE MAD GIRL'S
HOW IT IS

there's the madness
slamming on trains
and planes to readings:
exciting, zingy, empty
sometimes a real down 
and the house: lonely
Quiet, beautiful.
Peaceful to work in,
snow trees, light
thru stained glass. 
So I run down to
where it isn't, let
dust and rust blow
like Cape Cod wind
until I know what
isn't, go home, take 
a bath. None of it
goes together 

THE MAD GIRL WORRIES
ABOUT THE FUTURE

tho now 17 year
olds flirt and 
shitle, at least
from across the
street, she sees
herself old, with
a walker, her house
falling into itself
tho for now so
many lust for its
cherry wood, sleek
glass. Northside
she sees the cat
about to be buried,
those who care for
her dissolving,
like the paint's shine

THE MAD GIRL FEELS
IT GO FROM JUNE TO SEPTEMBER

too fast. She twists in
the too blue air. Somebody
goes to Peru. Some
else marries. Days of
roses fade like love
written in chalk on
slate a tidepool gulps.
She is the last leaf
on the walnuts turning
colorless, the 
first night of frost. 
Only oaks, fringed and
burnt sienna hold on
past Halloween in
thru December. She never
wrote to old lovers or
ex-husbands, never kept
broken machines just
in case but is like tree
that falls, twisting in a
gust from Jamestown 
seeing the blue lips of
the Hudson as sky

THE MAD GIRL PREFERS
DAWN TO DUSK

when colors are muted,
a hazy tangerine and guava
rose, the smallest 
blush on the frozen river,
palest melon shadows
misty as Spanish moss
on night just as lights
start to go on
and even the ragged black
branches seem lacy
against a bluing to
licorice sky. The
flat iron building wrapped 
in tulle, as deceptive
as the yellow stole she
asked David if she should
wear to the Junior Women's
Club dance where his
"suit yourself" was harsh
as moon on a snow covered
prairie. The primary
colors, too bold, white
like an operating table
skins spread open for under
such bright light and no
place to hide