The Blue Pitcher

that which may be filled and emptied


Arrange whatever pieces come your way
shatter of waterford scattershot

newtown oldtown the tree that falls
is just so loud so much louder

than I ever expected taste of blood
oranges that I peeled for you

in that hot room roar of ac
blinking cursor cats mating

by lonely I mean only so lonely
in my head only that if you

really knew me you might not
know me the rain hasn’t fallen

for days this is the song in my head


I was barefoot I didn’t wear a veil
were I called on to define very briefly

the term Art or the word woman
my own brain is to me the most

unaccountable of machinery
I steal Poe and Woolf and

a lethargy steals over all the finer
nerves and faculties of my soul

I have no country even the heart
in the body which lies in the sun

on the beach, says too, that is all
and the body alone listens you must

arrange whatever pieces come your way


By noon crave only the intangible
and of what you crave mention

nothing out where the salt flats
flattened the red rocks reddened

I sat on the hoover dam ate an apple
imagined a life like this one only

you were in it so many lonely stars
how satisfying it must feel to shift

suddenly out of orbit to collide
the hydrangeas never bloomed

at twenty it is easy to know what
you want even at thirty

I was barefoot I didn’t wear a veil


Does my talk of foxes confuse you
am I bailing out with language if

the words are things before they
are things and before they are things

ideas as I said it wasn’t a fox at all
my father-in-law wants me to lock

up the girls but I can’t find the key
really this is not a metaphor

and that is not a metaphor
even my hunger right now is not

a metaphor it is true will I slice
the peaches into a bowl will I

by noon crave only the intangible


Far away the sapphire blooms into fire
in the country I steal smokes sit

quietly wish I could tell you
about the light but isn’t that always

the wish as if you knowing my light
would make you understand

the footsteps in rooms the pining
I blew out all the candles

on my cake I lay in the wet cold grass
what is this old jewel I carry

in my pocket worry with my thumb
as blue as blue as blue as

does my talk of foxes confuse you


(I always imagined nights to be darker.)


(poem was here.)


(The light which keeps falling and getting back up)


(poem was here)


(poem was here.)


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