Monday, March 2, 2009

Evening Poem #60

Accurate or drift. A leash
doubled over the doorknob.
It is exactly as it should be.
Right? You are pointed, horn-
rimmed, while she is float
lines. The bed made. Dollar
spent. No one is toasting
it. Because there are more
than thirteen ways
of looking at it. Scout
knew that. Target or
area. The man on the street
explaining, "this is the drift
areas." Re: not for you.
You are not for her,
either. A cold spell
in spring, blowing down
the doors, the newscaster
accurately forecasting
the inches but not
the drifts. The taillight
leaning accurately away,
drifting toward a meadow
land which is without you.

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