"I had many things to write, but I will not with ink and pen write unto thee..."
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Time and Date AMERICA

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JANUARY 3
	
	tho I put "04"
	on the cover
	
	First poem in a
	new note book,
	
	first metro to
	ballet, Ambien
	
	and Valium dazed.
	I couldn't sleep.
	
	Thunder, lightning,
	
	abandonment blues
	in the pillow
	
	I never found the
	right place
	
	to settle on either

2.	

	mud squash,
	boughs dripping.
	Fog. No color
	but what's left
	over from china-	
	berry buds,  	dark
	mountain berries.
	Christmas lights
	the paint is worn
	from. Ever since
	the solstice, it 
	seems darker
	at night. Blues
	for an old lover,
	a quart of gin
	on his grave. Blue
	sweatshirt, navy
	shades and paler.
	Bones that can
	no longer betray

REPAIR: Concourse or confluence of people at or in a place; resort, frequent or habitual going; making one's way; to arrive; to dwell; to heal, to cure, to recover; to renew; (AND!) to fix to original condition. Oxford English Dictionary
"Poetry endangers the established order in the soul."
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MARTIN LUTHER KING DAY
            
            that year,
            the poet from the trees,
            still only on paper
            
            I'd picked up
            photographs to send him,
            my face round, candelabra
            
            It was before his
            huge face moved like
            a snake hardly over me
            
            Before I threaded
            too many necklaces
            of tears,
            
            the nightmare of
            having him,
            
            the nightmare of 
            him go
            
2.
            
            everything burning 
            in me seemed a
            sin, hearing the
            news  as if any
            normal life should
            be enough. All 
            this now buried
            under layers of skin,
            I dreamt of wearing
            him like a glove
            as soon as my
            husband pulled out
            of the driveway. 
            I knew his hands
            would be winged,
            I could feel guilt
            clot in my fingers

3.
            
            before the news,
            I imagined myself
            
            splayed like fingers
            for the ex poet
            
            teasing from the
            other coast. He sent
            
            wine, he sent
            photographs and
            
            letters that made me
            know he'd be the
            
            first. Yes, I was
            married but that's 
            
            another poem. I'd 
            just picked up
            
            photos to
            send him but
            
            suddenly it seemed
            hearing of
            
            death, a chalk 
            eraser swiped clear
            
            any thought of 
            skin on skin


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JUST MISSING the METRO
	
	record breaking
	January warm. It
	must be. I look at
	the emerald I must
	have grabbed to
	pull something 
	green into me, 
	think how my 
	mother for years
	longed for one,
	her birthstone and
	when the uncles 
	pooled up and got 
	her one, it was, she 
	found tho she wore 
	it, pale off color,
	small. There was 
	less green in her 
	life. Not the emerald
	of any dreams. I
	look at mine in the
	warm sun, see a 
	dark shape I'm not
	sure should be 
	there, a cloud in
	the green tho I 
	swear I won't 
	always, like her, 
	find flaws in jewels


'all the fine arts are species of poetry'
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