In the yellow head of a
tulip
In the yellow head of a tulip
in
the sound of the wind entangled in the forest
in the haphazard combination of things
for sale on the sidewalk
an iron next to a nail-clipper next to a can of soup
next to a starling’s feather
in the silence inside
of stone
in tea in music in desire in butter in torture
in space that flings itself out in the universe
in
every direction at once without end
despite walls despite grates and ceilings
and bulletproof glass
the sun
falls through without refracting
in the wind hanging out its own sheets
on all the empty clotheslines
in
the bowels of rats
in their tiny moving architectures
in a world that is always moving
in those who are unable
to speak but know how to listen
in your mother who is afraid of her own thoughts
in her fear in her death
in
her own derelict loneliness
in the garden late at night
between the alder tree and the ash
she rocks herself
to sleep in the hammock
a little drunk and wayward
in everything she is that you are not
in the well of the
skull
in the fish that you touch
in the copper water
in its breath of water
in your breath, the single
bubble rising
that could be you
that could be me
that could be nothing
When Our House Was Old
If it’s true
what Lorca said,
that dead people
hate the number two,
what do you suppose
they think of
the number three?
The number three
that can vanish
without a trace
twice into
the number six
and three times
into the number nine.
I’ll tell you,
if I were dead,
I’d love
the number
nine.
Because it’s
as if it’s made
of metal.
And it’s lilac-
colored and beautiful
like a circle.
And also because
any number
divisible by nine,
itself adds up to nine.
Take for instance,
the number 18
or 27 or 36…
It’s a puzzle
that’s immaterial
and soundless,
like a shuttle.
A shuttle only the dead
travel by
from the horizon
to the pawnshops
in Vivian
and back.
Or from the horizon
to the stockyards
in Omaha
and from the stockyards
to Spain.
And from Spain;
back in time
to when our house
was old
and we had
a lot of books
and Lorca
was our light
of eyelids
and billfolds,
of bitter roots
and
floating terraces.
-from Astoria
