Technical Drawing by Ross Feld
It’s different than invention, burdocks
pulled off alone, let’s say alone.
I can’t take my own comparisons
nor make active the dumb rust machines
that are leased within.
Call it what you like but what rhymes
with peach is reach, teach,
beseech, all in a chorus of some positive
drawl, getting there.
Or with cherry? merry, berry, ferry
into some days you can’t get enough of.
But my invention. Not the novel of
insects. Plum with
dumb, come, some rum
soaked half-life burning
and sighing in a small wind.
Inadequate. My song sung. And just
too much for invention, phased
out, obsolete, parsed.
Reveille
The heart is too easily awakened by things
like the telephone. It is whipped from
its own tired science by a
noise, it sets down the figures of women
who ran, wild-haired, thru its dream. Women,
scenting the world with morning,
cut grass, damp breasts, an
odor of plums.
The heart lay there absolutely
mute and fascinated
by these visitors who had something
to do with happiness but now it
drops them and they crack. Broken women,
broken plums. The telephone rings and says,
"This is the operator,
Fuck you."
How good can you be
when you lie next to me, heads drifted
pulsing, pressed together,
framing love’s unbend.
How good , the Sun stays,
smiling spawns of senses in our bed.
the unbending spices life spins
thoughts to others with notions,
we remind them of The Fool--
Legs wreathed to form growth to
Toast this one to love’s devout and tranquil institution
true instinct without rhyme or rule.
