Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to...
Rain Line Looking for the Ocean
(To Wallace Stevens)
I.
Up in the Hartford building
Up in the sky of skies
There were hallways that had
Glass walls, and behind them
Great leather chairs, couches
Two eyes, stacks of policies
The words “Phrases! But of fear
And of fate” scrawled on an
Actuarial table. Up in cigar
Smoke beside a window of brick
There decayed a ham with onion
Sandwich. Not the thing.
II.
Songs were invented before words.
It is easier to sing even if badly
Than to speak with some meaning.
Beautiful fractal patterns making
New every time, there were tribes that
Sang across woods and valleys to commune.
They ultimately mimicked the sounds
Of colors around them, colors manifest
In the sensation of touch and the dead art
Of poetry.
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Death
the water rolls
and, draping terraces,
seeps to that place
where we kneel down
to drink.
Shimmering.
***
War
There is danger in jazz
danger in what
it lets,
in the envy it mothers
paying attention mostly
to how much a soul weighs.
These are times
of believing self-assurances
and sleeping at boundaries.
Jazz lets us do that. But now I
see lights in the woods.
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