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The Yard
They were bouncing nervously on their toes
as they lingered near the fence
hanging on the mesh, fingers dangling
through, doing nothing to hide impatience,
an impatience heading into, shading
into: disgust.
They gazed off emptily into the yard, ignoring
the
show, making faces,
wincing, chuckling silently,
shaking off some invisible annoyance, nodding, squirting,
grinning: as though acknowledging applause.
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Detroit
He came to know the many
local glassblowers whose
ancestors had emigrated from
various parts of Europe: they
worked after dusk in the furnaces
and gave Detroit a vibrant night
life and an unusually diverse
population: any ferment had
been the source of a local
tradition of storytellers: who
spin cosmic yarns to whomever
is willing to listen: giving him his
first lesson in witchcraft.
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The Story
History is the realm of dust
of man-as-maker before too
much sinfulness came into
the world as if we could never
be subject to the same force,
the same dread, like an extended
monologue fighting to create a
balance with you which is a version
of what we all desire, even fight for,
as we are less concerned with a
formality: achieved conceived poise
but with ferocious forces like a
Siberian shaman beautifully
covering up and yet disclosing
the signs of her work as your
signs are my signs: feeling our
way, like the shaman, with line
breaks, blank space and italics
made visible: the stumbling, almost
hanging on and wanting to feel
like it's the same way.
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