I'll write about earth, oh my river, the sluiced iron
earth, the pan-smooth stones, gray and organ pink this
way coming to some conclusion. March now. To shake
the crows let in the back way, east window, mornings, to
ask them my fearful questions, the black-rimmed eyes
in the trees. The sleeping mother in the bedroom whose
fetal legs leave the sheets and let us eye her black-haired
vulva. Rock through water. The clock on a nearby roof
ticks off, I should sleep, though you sweep in, your usual
way with me, a wake of black iron on the west bank
soft with fish. Scoop the dying minnows from their pool
of green moss, still the mother woke in her yellow
body veil and discovered us. The lookI’ve forgotten.
The smell is hairbrush sweet. She is sweet in the mornings
and mirrored mirrored in vanity lights and tethered
to the coiled turquoise phone cord and the brush
of contour shadow pink or gray. Eye and shadow. The philodendron
in the corner window sprawls, misses its tree. The mulberry
out front sheds seed and rots into the wood stoop. They sand
and paint each spring. Tree: come. But later, it is
winter. The mother stoops, she sweeps the step clean with her
hand. She is under the trees and rooting
among the windfalls, and the wind wakes the child. They talk.
You, further south oh my river and I sleep, I will. I saw her on her
knees. You too. She sucked her life from where you were. From clay.
I will write about earth, oh my river, the sluiced iron earth,
the pan-smooth stones, gray and organ pink this way
coming to some conclusion. March now. To shake the crows
let in the back way, east window and mornings. To ask
them my fearful questions. The black-rimmed eyes
in the trees. The sleeping mother in the bedroom
whose fetal legs leave the sheets and let us eye her
black-haired vulva. To let me know where you’re going
won’t you, in the future? The clock on the roof
nearby is right, I should sleep, though you sweep in, your
usual way with me, you move in me, a wake of black iron
on the west bank soft with fish. To scoop the dying
minnows from their pool of green moss. The mother
woke in her yellow body veil and discovered us. The look
I’ve forgotten. The smell is hairbrush sweet. She is sweet
in the mornings and mirrored mirrored in vanity
lights and tethered to the coiled turquoise phone cord
and the brush of contour shadow pink or gray. The philodendron
in the corner window sprawls, misses its tree. Tree
come. The mulberry out front sheds seed and rots into the wood
stoop. They sand and paint each spring. But later, it is
winter. The mother stoops, she sweeps the step clean. Eye,
shadow. She is under the trees and rooting among the windfalls,
and the wind wakes the child. They talk. You, further south
oh my river and I sleep, I will. I saw her on her knees.
You too. She sucked her life from what you saw. To clay.
I will write about earth, oh my river, the sluiced iron earth,
the pan-smooth stones, gray and organ pink this way I think
coming to some conclusion. March now. To shake the crows
let in the back way, east window and mornings. To ask
of them my fearful questions. The black-rimmed eyes
in the trees. The sleeping mother in the bedroom
whose fetal legs leave the sheets and let us eye her
black-haired cunt. Let me know where you’re going
won’t you, in the future? The clock on the roof
nearby is right, I should sleep, though you sweep in, your
usual way, me through you, a wake of black iron
on the westbank soft with fish. Green moss. You forget?
The mother woke in her yellow body veil and discovered us.
The lookI’ve forgotten. The smell is hairbrush sweet. She is
sweet in the mornings and mirrored in the vanity lights
and tethered to the coiled turquoise phone cord
and the brushof contour pink or gray. Eye shadow.
The philodendron in the corner window sprawls,
misses its tree. Tree come.Make up. The mulberry out front
sheds seed and rots into the wood stoop. They sand
and paint each spring. But later. The mother stoops, sweeps
the step clean with her hand. Who are you? She is under
the trees and rooting. You go
south my home. I sleep. I will. But you go home.
