Poem 93

The fan silhouette to the windows looks almost like a clover,
and I am with you again on the lawn,
with your pinky wrapped around mine
pulling fist fulls from the landscaping,
hoping beyond reason that one of them will have four leaves…
Not that we would know what it meant to be lucky if we got one…

We were the unlucky ones, the children with storm-shutter hearts blown open… But still

You saught clovers until our
knees were blue with jean prints,
our jeans were sour with grass,
until the mountainside swallowed
the sun and for a brief moment
every clover had four fronds.

We were the slim side of twenty then,
still slumping over clovers…
You with an eye for detail, begging me:
One more, one more,
as if I could have said no.

They were clovers after all,
legend myth-mush,
crushed into text books, pressed into walls…
Someday those days will be hyperbole, fish-story-elephant-ears,
and when I tell them I my children’s children
I’ll know it was true, the clovers anyhow, lucky or not, were symmetrical
–ECW

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Poem 92

The last generation of a trouble child with a bad attitude.
Don’t talk like that at the table
Chew with your mouth closed
Stop stabbing your brother with your fork
This is how I imagine America coming coming coming around the corner of the world
A trouble child with a bad attitude

And he? He has his handprint on the heartbeat,
Cradle and Jesus and history bitten in stone
We know the sand, the salt
The distance of the ocean from a plane headed west, west, west
It’s the world that gets bigger, broader, older and we are looking at the last generation of something
Call it globalization, call it the world wide window… Forward and backward.
We are the last generation of a culture clash, the last fragments of culture, Timeless instant clay

Poem 91

My lover makes tea in the evening
Because it calms him
Because its simple
Because its made of the earth and he feels empty of the dirt sometimes when he’s been reading about politics and beaurocracy…
Because he’s made of the earth on some level, we both are

My lover makes tea in the evening because he’s not from here
He’s not bitter about boson; what we put in the bay
He drinks tea not coffee… Because tea tasted like home to him, like the desert and the sea and the air when it’s too dry to birth springtime
My lover brews tea in the evening and I wonder why it is two people can put water to dust and not call it magic…
He’s merely my lover
It’s just tea