Poems

Words. Not that they fail. Rather serve too well.
I know precisely who I long for. Whom?
My heart cannot bear to say what my hands tell.

Shape, color, texture, heft–these comfort me.
I lay them out in a cool-quiet room.
Words. Not that they fail. Rather serve too well.

The surface of things is all I can see
or want to see–not cradle, nor tomb.
My heart cannot bear to say what my hands tell.

Arrange. Rearrange. What else could they be?
Meaning is swept out with memory’s broom.
Words. Not that they fail. Rather serve to well.

Without memory, all meaning floats free–
vague traces in dust, the shade of perfume.
My heart cannot bear to say what my hands tell.

Glue stick, glue gun–adhering is the key.
Without memory, meaning cannot loom.
Words. Not that they fail. Rather serve too well.
My heart cannot bear to say what my hands tell.

things (over which) I’ve been lucky to stumble
and become fond (of) – the goods, material

for construction—art or a structure of ideas—
using whatever comes to hand. Anything,

in other words, is useful or can be, and what else
does the heart desire but to be of use? What comes

to hand, the textural equivalent of memory
coming to mind.   Walking the dog (Greta now, rescued

some years back, her leash chewed through and dangling),
I kneel to retrieve. A rusted pipefitting. A fine strip of orange

plastic with corrugated edges. One red reflector, cracked.
#2 pencil, splayed, golden paint chipped, nub of erasure.

Inch-thick shard of glazed pottery. An elbow
of tree bark, swabbed with pale green moss. All

on my worktable in a tango of various glues and things
such as this soot-flecked rectangle of styrofoam

some car ran over pressing into relief the embroidery
of its tread, (over which) my valentine marvels,

“Let’s frame this.” Listen. A person should only marry
a person who likes the stories s/he tells.