Green Pitch


1. Plate Grinding 


Here I am, inside unplaceable afternoon hour

     3 floors up this lake city, with shore’s grid, & you

     your trucks, your busses, they scrape along my egg
Schoolkids rush across the road not so much dodging 

     as commanding the flow stop, classroom quease

     belched laughter, upend open umbrellas, jump holes

Shadows collect along the worry on your drivers’ faces 

     as your clouds nod promise of rain, to pool.

That sight was blue, a mote of heaven, now it's over-

     we knew that splinter was firmament, through which  

      the last birds climbing heave & counter-balance again
Up the street on the left produce is cheap. I’ll grab cabbage, easy

     in mist - daylight, dry again. Restless even in wind

I can’t place it. My word’s heel turns to a simple blink 

     of warmaking against prism lace which speaks in specks
Where are you now? I trace along your tongue in rivulets. 


2. Heat at Formation


Shakes despite my hulking frame, I turn towards the sun,
     take stock:

Walnut head, sun-yellowing vines flow as hair, bean-flower blossom 

     eyes, ears in organy, salvia tongue flickering, teeth rowed in juniper 

     leaf, borage heart, rhubarb lungs weakened, thistle liver pricks like 

     pumice, bladder full a cherry in winter, Fern spleen, earth-nut stomach

     (empty then full then empty again), chickweed intestines, plump 

     melons for hands, fingers, nerves. 

We gave them stirrups, a thesis, rasknovik to open locks. One more word 

     & we walk, nod under, then dig to a heaving sea. Near heat all begins 

     yet still these flowers flood up at night: as the moon grows sap rises.

3. Affordance Unravelling 


Believe in this - snap-of-twig - 

In delight, most panes shift cook and bake. We are a plate 

     of milk, a net gone sour. Bite-up and we all dash along

     given up too late, gone, help to flee, to stamp out & up

Up some roots, some bows, the sea gazing insect situated is hot, 

     open to looking, ever veering in this warm 

     upsetting, little whirly reel in veins best clung 

There are thousands of you, sugar blood burst in a whirl, 

     impulse pulls through chirping & drone keeping our

     mouths shut up, drowned out by your chattering

Nothing can be measured in you. In delight we rest around you, 

     beating hunger, attention in spirit gluten

I said this, meant this, if I changed two things whole paper thin 

     pitcher lined with arcs of hair would have toppled, spill 

     everything out in washes of sleep stench, colour mystery 

Please don’t handle my insides that way, the way a leaf spectrum bulges up

     levelling hundreds of axles. But there is no sense, nothing to solve

     just something to embark in, bring closer for puzzlement & discover
     that the hole in my bucket leaves me everything and everywhere


4. Mirror-like Cutting


Lover’s tears - what’s it like? I hear such a beautiful name
     see a steaming plate on dark green dishes on the table after 

     the entrance, delicious feeling, my taste has changed for this dish. 

I once heard the story of your residents in the rain harvesting the heart 

     the farmers suffered against their lords, days grew hot & they were 

     hungry so they toppled royal statuary & used the eyeholes to grind
     grain for flour. That was hundreds of years ago & I was there, remember? 

After your rain came the tears, then peony. What are you now? Crossing your 

     boundary of breath, unlike statues I worry about hurting you in ways I 

     didn’t expect, of my blind spots, rapids, corners, snares, barbs, eyes

Wondering duration, wonder symmetry along a perineum seam

     wondering what is involved with parasites stuck on twisted reeds

     soon toss & broke, leaving foam for somebody new... 

Wondering mood: to be angry, feel anger, see fever as a brush with immediate, 

     know anger as a slide towards maturation (thru meddling and melding)

 Please let my ghost stretch into real and beautiful hover a bit, 

     more than normal, grab at a yardstick of growth where I can

Think of my throw, think of my dwell then oar for seasons in me, 

     a worm-minute or ten later, good to a touch while

     bearing lurches, the cut glows, the clearing groans 


5. Futurite


Lonesome, I go out and bring back to my egg nobody

After spilling the interior is weakened. I question 

     my idle tenancy, my hair is falling out more, 

     drier at the ends. Cuts take longer to close-up,
Maybe this isn’t about extension but intention- sinister, 

     strange mechanics built along a design that burns 

     in spasm while we look for the maze’s entrance. 

By chance I water the earth I stand on & for fire for warmth 

     for busy hands. I summon shame in ribbons hung

     for a festival, but only in song, and not without wings

We are the spinning pinwheels of your sky     

     light giving loft to our joinery.

Here I’m already gone, and you, drought, stole from me

     that moment of dying, so let me gather relief

     for these boiling limbs
     then vanish