The Book with the Yellow Cover | Page 2

bike up Church Hill?(black Stetson, yellow kerchief).?I helped him shovel out Mrs. Cowell's?parking place. He did most of the work,?but he split the money fifty-fifty.?He's an outcast now;?no frontier he can reach.?But he's not crying, and we know?there is no virtue, only consequence?and the sometimes music?of a new shirt.
Woodstock
Bluejay Feather
Bluejay feather?in the grass.?Something was here?once,?A flash of color,?a harsh cry,?and it was gone.?The feather remains:?tough, precise,?useful
For Sylvester
On his 40th

Talking To Myself
Early dark blue, one jet trail?arching past Venus,?snow coming tomorrow.?My mother,?unable to move.?Hit it down the road, seven hours,?stand by her bed,?acknowledge the bond of blood,?the sensitivity?she could never handle,?that I have ridden to beauty?beyond all expectation.
Wilson Street
Low gray sky.?Cold. Still.?Christmas tree upside down,?tinsel on dirty snow.?A yellow balloon?bounces slowly?across Wilson Street.?A black cat?glides three steps up,?turns in a doorway.
Portland
On Looking At A Mediocre Painting
Thin paint. No passion.?We would agree, I know,?although we met only once--?some things are in the blood.?Mustard, orange, navy blue?around a fake significance.
The loss of Ireland, the 19th century,?what were you to do?
Fuck the beautiful, the gifted?(my mother before she went crazy);?leave the clanging cockroach cold?behind (Bobby);?find the best (Pollock, Kline,?Noguchi, Nakian),?live uptown (Kevin);?die finally.
Well, ashes to ashes then.
But the three of us--your sons,?scattered to separate lives--?one way or another?we carry you on,?this eye,?this fist within.
Sean
Every Moment
Sun warms?one side of the alley.?A young woman smiles at me,?surprised by her new beauty.?Sex, tenderness, cobblestones.?Once I was a Venetian?with my last gold coin.?Once I broke my vows?and left the Order.?Arms around her legs,?the blue milk crate?on which she sits, the?kitchen door propped open?with a mop--every moment?like this.
Portland
For Tamey
Drove over the bridge today,?saw the water far below?and once again imagined?your last jump--?desperation, pain, relief,?a twist of gallantry?across your face,?your final bow to the truth?you always told me to tell.?You sure as hell saved my life.?Tamey, I could never say goodbye.?I miss you. I wish?you could have played with Finnegan.
Rough cloth,?the gathering of giant ferns?woven together, supple, bending,?energy moving up your spine,?mind dancing in the night,?Palm Tree Exercise.
Kailua
The Early Ones
Black night turns dark blue,?a wedge of lighter blue,?dim gray.?Outposts on the beach?become aware of each other:?narrow stones?aligned to the east,?grouped around a driftwood stick?sixteen inches high.?In an hour--?sheltered by grass, overhanging?edge of the continent--?they will cast long thin shadows;?they will be first,?brave against the day.
For an anonymous sculptor,?Crescent Beach, Maine
Warm Sake
Warm sake, sashimi maguro,?blood red slices on a wooden block,?light green chicory, pickled ginger.?Outside: harbor ice rocking in the tide,?translucent, thin dark edges?swirling in black water.
Shiki
Portland

Leaving Finn
Las Cruces at dusk,?necklace on the desert.?Back in Tucson, Finn?recovering from surgery,?sweat on his nose,?trying to smile, whispering,?"Have a good trip, Dad."
Late Breakfast
Red nails,?gold cigarette,?young pampered mouth,?hair drawn back,?a sense of having reached?her limits,?a perfect twenty-two.?There was a moment?when she chose all this.
I must begin again,?without shame.
Wailana Coffee Shop
Honolulu

Spring Dream of SueSue
Perfectly quiet?a trout lets me hold him.
You surface laughing,?dark hair,?blue shirt unbuttoned.
March
Lament For Paul
Scratching your beard, excited,?"Fantastic," you said about?the Beatles' new record.?The next night you played?your own shy songs, surprising us.?You were crushed beneath your car,?but your songs, Paul, I heard them.?We all heard them.
Woodstock
For Coyote
I think of you drinking, dancing,?unable to sleep, reading until first light,?a blanket drawn around your shoulders,?afternoons, working your wheel until?the time to mingle with true hearts,?raise glasses, hug, laugh,?help as you can.?We are all dying, slower or faster,?but it hurts to watch.?And out of the numb exuberant wreckage of your days?come these raku pots--?graceful open shapes, lines freely?scratched into the clay, deep turquoise,?copper glazes, extravagant, surprised,?too beautiful for tears.
After Months
Shifting unstable air,?patches of light,?raindrops standing on?the candy red gas tank?of a Kawasaki 750.?Coming down harder,?bouncing off the seat,?dripping from the tips?of black rubber handgrips,?tach speedometer needles?resting on their zero pegs,?twin mirrors focused back.
October,
Maine

Fortune Cookie
Almond lemon gritty on the tongue,?--_TIMES LONG AGO WILL PRESENT?A SPECIAL TREASURE TO YOU_--?A moment whole again??To see more clearly, Trudi, 17,?washing in the Woodland Valley?stream. Tamey,?giving me another nickel?to play pinball.?Barbara's smile, wanting a