The Blue Pitcher

that which may be filled and emptied

all the good poems these days

seem to be about caves and ladies hunkering down in them
or groping around the wet dark opening I tell my students
if you run your hand along the wall for long enough
you’ll probably find a light switch but I tell them all sorts of things
tonight Eva is riding on a Zamboni I like how Zamboni
rhymes with pony and I like the dusk and the way
it gets dark so early that’s a lie now I will tell you lies
all the good poems these days tell lies not really that’s a lie
is it it is is it I haven’t been in a cave in years actually
I’m not sure I’ve ever been in a cave or if I’m remembering
watching Goonies in the half-light I have a memory of riding
horses in the snow in South Dakota the pines buckled
my crotch ached my mother says it never happened
and by it I mean everything everything never happened
nothing ever happened these days poets say they want to curse
in all their poems and talk about politics and some other poets say
they have no desire for syntax or sex because the world is so
and then they curse and point towards the sky in high school
this girl abby said she was trying to get her bf to do her
but he kept pointing to the ceiling god she asked is it god
but he was talking about her parents upstairs sleeping
or maybe not sleeping maybe just listening for the sound
of their daughter not being done being undone today for lunch
I packed Ella shrimp cocktail and three tiny apples all the good
poems these days have shrimps I told Zoe I wish I could write
poems for my daughters also I’m going to tell you now
because I keep forgetting to tell anyone in real life
so all I have is this life but what I’m going to tell you is that
I’ve seen three shooting stars in the past month this makes me
think that either something really good is about to happen
or the sky is bottoming out in china fireflies are harvested
and you can buy tickets to go to the park and watch their lights
what I’m asking is would you buy a ticket all the good poems
these days sell tickets if you buy this one I’ll rub your temples
and sing you a song and nobody will never have to know

Note: it’s the

Nobody that I love here,
the way if you saw her

you might not even notice
the rice. In her hair,

a gray window unwinding.
But if you are her, or me,

one by one, opening. Stop.
Wild geese calling. Stop.

Opening again. Stop. You see,
the noticing is a being,

the being as broken as it seems,
which is to say: not at all.

Nobody says nothing.
It’s still too early for that.

The only light is the kitchen’s,
pulsing, and far away,

the children are breathing
in twin beds, which is,

of course, its own kind of light,
though Nobody cares,

will always care, will carry
the kindle in her emptiness.

Stop. Somewhere. Stop.
A village is overrun by flowers.

Another November

it would be of good use to pause
on the indignity of the moment.

The Made Thing

What made thing be unmade?

Said the Word

I am so slanted as to be slate

Another November

Most days look like the day before,
that is, if we’re lucky. Or unlucky.


in which we are only material for the universe


Close your eyes I’ll tell you more


do you believe me     believe me


Who can I blame for what I became