THE WHOLE HOUSE IS EMPTY

Plucked rose, crocus, iris, lilies,
larkspur blooms and violet
abducted from my grandmother’s house
in the springtime meadow.

A leaf I shred a little
and hand back to myself.

Blue and heart-shaped,
the pillow given to
my grandmother’s husband,
home from his third heart attack
to track the restitched vein.

A muscle of stuffed polyester
I could, under my head, place
if I wanted to.

I learn, carrying it with me,
above my head so not to look,
when a mirror passes
and reveals an atrium,
what it can do.

I learn at the table, whereupon
I graft stickers when not watched
then peel them off, time.

Once, in the garden of my grandmother’s house
I threw at a reddening tree
what I felt to be a stone in my shoe,
the shadow of.

I receive there as usual
a knitted clover,
like a child’s attempt at a necklace,
light and without tools.

DINNER PARTY

1.

With nowhere left to go but up
to the burnt bottom of a pot,
a house holds fire, self-
perpetuating.

2.

I trace with my nail a circle on my thigh
where I begin with no marking,
insinuating direction.

3.

So nicely
a gooseneck kettle
on my stove,
makes of water a mess.

4.

Underneath the cooking grate
that grates the blue fire,
a little tip of red.
It spurts a little
more, relentlessly.

5.

It keeps no temperature gauge.
I leave the oven on
and leave the room,
later wondering.

When later wondering
whether I did,

I did, relieved
to have remembered
something.

SONG

In this well-raveled bed with spilled
Sheets over the right side.

Sleep creased me,
Folds up above my eyes.

Outside his ladder against the wall
A handyman tosses.
Somebody tosses somebody else

One but no one throws me a towel.
At the end of my clothesline,

(I do have a clothesline)

I take off a first silk dress,
While all the shirts stand unarmed.