Poetry

I say archetype, but I really mean
messenger.

When I scarcely know what error of mind
made all brick, stucco, ravine, ale, and song fail
and all floorboards flee except 

It hit me in a noisy bistro—

the muted frequency— 
Jimmy Cobb’s brushes were fine sand

I can still see it, just a touch of what
you might call its lip, or maybe a long knife-ready
underbelly. The sturgeon moon is swimming

I am going to disappear in Belmont,
after taking a walk in intermittent rain.
I will vanish one day in Belmont—don’t correct me—

Here’s to 
the innards 
and ubers 

Nobody, my father said, could get so many
scrapes and scratches accidentally:
without them I probably would not have liked it so much.

Requisite dog bark. Far off.
No response.

Within the hush of birch medallions, 
fir fingers, wild scallions—
that company of dancers held 

Channel, brook, stream—call it a river
that flows past the hospital
in different shades and seasons of blue,