91│ homebody, missing, put it back together again

Recently mowed mourning man made his way into the meadow. He was a happier sort of scamp now that the rains had ended, and skipping why not he decided that no one, probably (if it could be said), would be looking. It was early. And the sun and sky parabolically reflected in that space all that the heavy glistening could offer. His companion had been there too—and the airplanes, as always, those airplanes—rising and falling again and again in their customary patterns above his head. What a wonder he thought. And how splendid. So like him, anyway, the sadness parted—bidding adieu in most heartbreaking fashion—going away, as he recalled wistfully, some years later, for a little less than forever.

for Isabelle Muneera-Copeland Murdock, my most precious girl,
far away in Essouira, Maroc

30 May 2009

90│ my heavens how good it is to see you

In the hall of sweet persimmons the rule of phantoms marched,
spun, and stood attention—
such squirming, squeamish, garrulous little boys—
a psychophalanx of babble and whims—
flanked on both sides by a mean and virile brand of willow—
and in the rear, a buzzard, a bat—
directed, clearly, toward the impressionable sort—
the spasmodic furies, us, the toasted bursts,
the innumerable moons of Jupiter for god’s sake—
whomever—to be certain—
you did not want to encounter their kind—
still there they were—all the same—saluting you—
pleading