Book Open, Face Down
The roof was for keeping, keeping from.
Now rain the face, rain felt in muscle
before gray, an unflinching ache for change.
Now the bridge suggests throw it over,
no hand to break it. He pulled over, not breathing,
as if itís the heart meter pleases.
To continue through ends it quicker, yes,
the pleasant angle of end, but what of curved
bowls, the pouring, the means?
She dipped a ruler in a puddle, drowned
half herself in seeking explanations,
leaned over the bed under the swaying
bulb to murmur rhymes,
head wrapped in silk to hold
memory slight against the spine.
Itís worth the sting to feel a spiderís
legs across the hand. And destroying it later,
also pleasant. We love the river floor
full of rocks, colder than water and hard
insects with songs caught in water.
Edges of paper writhe up under rock.