Thursday April

We're gonna iron the dog,
cross the fence and
blonde my fries,
this day grows pnuematic
and doors bloom in the shade.

Take me lakeward and wet me
like a robot in thunderstorms,
I cannot interpret bar-b-que
or the ridge of your ribs.
Bring the possum water
and salt. Red arrows wing
like lightning into the sun.

I see it all as I step away:
Field mice skip and hum.
Hay will be made they pray.
But first, pass some time
and toss all that confetti.

Kites come with wine bottles
tied to their tails. Bottles ring.
We brought ghouda and jars.
A rugby team jaunts distant yards
as geese honk north over steeples.
Yellow lights strobe the beach.
It is so easy to lick your feet.

O organ in the woods
lift your reeds to the moon.
I am in need of seratonine
and a little piece of pie.
Wind, wind, wind, below.

The Heart of Crystal Bridges

 THE DREAM

IN    WHICH
WE    WALK
EVERY DAY

            for Joe Milazzo

You discover a Sherman tank in the attic

rumbling across rafters over acoustic tile,

electrical wire interweaves with blue steel

like the beginning of a stormy thought.

You name it “him,” so the swivel cannon

becomes a religious icon. In cord net

sweat shirt and canvas pants his skin

glows pink as a cat’s tongue and shiny.

Excuse this dream, it will not hurt

or protect you from sunburn or in-

sanity. How squeaky the treads mesh

over the trunks of forgotten letters,

heirlooms and old photos. Dust stirs.

Through multiple layers of bullet-

proof glass, you target the trapdoor

which lowers a ladder into a garage.

If any girl sticks her curls up you

will blow them out through the vent

into the bent night, the broken stars,

the sullen tree — on into the avenue

with its scatter of  tire treads and

chrome plated shards. Poof!