the frangipani flower
(whether in Australia or Mexico).
But I cannot force myself
to ruin a flower with words. The collapse
of a flower – our footsteps
clearing the ground of weeds,
the stench of snake like a hunting horn: lugubrious.
Then the clouds followed me,
and the bottle swallowed me,
and the Iceman warned me,
and the disease took me,
the thaw, control,
Poets are hard to know. They presume
humans invented poetry
and not the other way around.
All poems are love poems with bad ink.
You are not Neruda
(your bellybutton is too large and I don’t like it
when you shave)
but you ask the same questions.
If I were a ruby, would I be envious of a pomegranate?
A pomegranate is more sensual; a ruby lasts
and is stronger. I’d rather be
a pomegranate, able to multiply
I wanted to memorialize something
not worth memorializing:
A gutted black bear in a truck bed
driving toward Calais, Maine. The spine
of books, stuttering colours on the shelf,
sandstorms coming down off the Gobi desert,
a dog named Jindy.