December 01, 2007

Broken Pot Dovecote

I had the soil
and roots to go by,
and they held, even
when my hands were
cold. The ocean has
one soul or many
that cool this work.
One always reaches
for the biggest
shards first and so did I,
and I felt the little
ones in my palm
all day. It was
silly to drop all this
indifference onto the
walk, in the form
of flowers, but the petals
stay there broken, and I use
my own hands for glue.
The soil and roots, your heart.

—Michelle Mitchell-Foust

Posted by dwaber at 03:24 PM

November 30, 2007

Ars Poetica for Kevin

This dovecote pushes god
to produce the universe,

splits a grain of sand
for a cave of light

so a coyote grows
in the median.

This dovecote
an inch from the ground

balances a cornbread
among five sparrows

and makes the poltergeist sound
of their gray feet against the gray leaves.

It starts the creepy hotel light
strobing onto the lawn across,

feels a massive tractor’s reflection
move slowly across the glassed-in

skeleton of the building
at the edge of a field,

where it pushes a girl’s cold thumb
into my sleep, slips

so as to fall, demands a place
where it might be okay to be weary,

and nudges you, scarf and all,
into my hands.

—Michelle Mitchell-Foust

Posted by dwaber at 03:34 PM