Poem 25: In Praise of the Greenland Frost Camel

For James Grinwis, upon news his book will be published.

Poems are hurtling from space,
unknown, darkly comic, incinerating
at the touch of atmosphere.
And we, Brontosauri, fix
our eyes upon the apocalypse.

Mussels, mayonaise and toast,
jazz saxophone in a moody
walk-up apartment on a sleepy
side street in a college town.
She says they look like genitals.

Gods named after Norse dogs
orbit across the wild sky,
black stick figures storm
the airport. Like the frost
camel, anything is possible.

I Got To 24

Well, November's out. I wrote 24 poems (plus one revision) in 30 days, six poems off the pace. I think I will continue writing, at least until I get to the 30 poems, if not longer. It was an interesting month. Someone asked me, "How do you find the time to write every day?" And I told them that I didn't have the time, really, that a lot of the poems were dashed off in 15 minutes or a half an hour, when I really should have been doing other things. But it did make me pay attention during the day, thinking about things that could make their way into poems. As I wrote many of the poems, I was aware that they were hasty, rushed, half-baked, drafts. Some poems I think have interesting things going on in them, but I pushed them to completion so that I could have a poem in a day, and then the next day, I moved on to the next poem. But I have 24 poems, and even if most of them could use some serious revision and some of them should just be buried, it has been a rewarding experience. I forced myself to find the time and sit down and write. I should make it a habit.

Poem 24: I want a girl

In a lyric, there's a boy and
a girl. Like you, chasing a boy
around the room with an orange
fire truck, under that painting
of Vermont. Like the song
that came on, while you were riding
in your car seat. In the rearview,
cars behind us were shadows
across your face. I want a girl,
with a mind like a diamond.
This morning, you said "Aretha,"
but it was a new singer and a long
time change gonna come. Like your mom
and the short plaid skirt. I want
a girl who knows about matches.
Who strikes anywhere. I want a girl
like a song makes your hips shake.
Like running down hills, like
not caring if you fall, like dusty
knees. I want a girl.

Poem 23: Four Word Lines

she read stock quotes
her finger tracing down
newspaper on bicycle seat
plastic bags for clothes
the field's sunny corner
a warm November day
the tower loomed above
dog and I turned
end of the street

Poem 22: A Wedding in Maine

What could be more Yankee
than a hotel on the beach
in Kennebunkport, the Bush
compound just out of view?
You wore your red dress,
and clutched my arm in the photo
that would become our engagement
picture. I loved to examine
your back, freckle by freckle.
We walked on goose rocks; it's true,
my ex rode with us, and we survived.
Enclosed, find my bias: the Green
Heron Inn on the briny marsh,
a garden, a stone bench. We walked
across a drawbridge, we walked
to a salty bar. The moon was
a nipple over the ocean, an oyster.
I refused to kowtow. I breathed
in your ear. "Flash & yearn"
I wrote in their book. Now,
they're back in Maine and we
are none the wiser.

Poem 21: Lights

We stop the car
to show you: look
up, over the field
a tree of lights
on the stone tower
illuminating
the traprock face
of the rocky ridge.
It reminds me
of hot cocoa, late
at night, walking
down the hallway
of the hospital
with a newborn
respect for the small
hours.

Poem 20: A Hasty Ghazal

For text messages, turkey, and the Chinatown bus, thanks.
For cousins across the table, and all the dinner fuss, thanks.

In Greenfield, Main Street's empty, it's a day to be home;
for driving on Interstate 91 without the traffic rush, thanks.

It's true, I remember Cleveland. Last time we were there,
you were pregnant. Now the family's three of us, thanks.

Several Thanksgivings ago, I brought cider and was the life
of the party, before I collapsed on the couch in delirious thanks.

Roux for gravy, red sauce, and Cajun turkey pie:
For leftovers like that, the only word was thanks.

Driving the car, with the impressionable daughter in back,
you didn't just cut me off, you made me cuss. Thanks.

Andrew, your Saint's Day is the end of this poetry month.
Six behind now? You should give, for his slanted cross, thanks.