Post by LynnDoiron on Jan 4, 2008 20:51:42 GMT -5
Below that bluff
where the road runs tilted for the flood plain, Oaks
thrash the sky and diggers sway, lean out easy forty-fives
of needled fingers, wrench back, gray turnings
of sap greens: rain’s way of backspacing
tints and tones, pixel by pixel, drained,
while further south, along the west-east run of creek, muscat
vines, miles of vines
soar and fall like jumbled ropes turned by school kids
high on coke,
and the white-gold bark on Cottonwoods, storm-
soaked, are all turned black
by wet. All the growing trees, in chaos: red bud,
dogwood, eucalyptus, apple, pear, plum, not one branch
spared horrific winds, every root
knotting tendrils underground to hold, hold,
hold. On the roof a thump so loud you know
an arm’s been broken like a matchstick, but thicker
than a cat or even a goat, and the crack like a gunshot
is further off, beyond the fenceline,
in the field next door where a Valley Oak’s girth
has shattered. Lupine, the seeds,
will not find the sun through this tombstone,
nor poppies, mauve clover, or columbine; bright moss
falls away like pelts from a mammoth body;
Cottonwood Creek swells, spills from its normal vein,
pulls the moss and the hulks of broken woods
to its main and carries them asea
while you key in the demise, power gone
but for this battery cell in a laptop topping your lap,
words, wet on the page, too still for the storm pressing
your windows with absolute wrath. The neighbor’s jute mat
has taken the air, flown with the waggles of Aladdin’s rug,
floats Welcome! in black across a dark sky,
Hear it snap as its roils on the wind?
And the hobnail soles of bootblack clouds
move on, move on, move on.
[original]
The Diggers sway, lean out easy forty-fives
of needled fingers, wrench back, gray turnings
of sap greens: rain’s way of backspacing
tints and tones, pixel by pixel, drained. Below that bluff,
where the road runs tilted for the flood plain, Oaks
thrash the sky,
and further south, along the west-east run of creek, muscat
vines, miles of vines
soar and fall like jumbled ropes turned by school kids
high on coke,
and the white-gold bark on Cottonwoods, storm-
soaked, are all turned black
by wet. All the growing trees, in chaos: red bud,
dogwood, eucalyptus, apple, pear, plum, not one branch
spared horrific winds, every root
knotting tendrils underground to hold, hold,
hold. On the roof a thump so loud you know
an arm’s been broken like a matchstick, but thicker
than a cat or even a goat, and the crack like a gunshot
is further off, beyond the fenceline,
in the field next door where a Valley Oak’s girth
has shattered. Lupine, the seeds,
will not find the sun through this tombstone,
nor poppies, mauve clover, or columbine; bright moss
falls away like pelts from a mammoth body;
Cottonwood Creek swells, spills from its normal vein,
pulls the moss and the hulks of broken woods
to its main and carries them asea
while you key in the demise, power gone
but for this battery cell in a laptop topping your lap,
words, wet on the page, too still for the storm pressing
your windows with absolute wrath. The neighbor’s jute mat
has taken the air, flown with the waggles of Aladdin’s rug,
floats Welcome! in black across a dark sky,
Hear it snap as it roils on the wind?
And the hobnail soles of bootblack clouds
move on, move on, move on.
where the road runs tilted for the flood plain, Oaks
thrash the sky and diggers sway, lean out easy forty-fives
of needled fingers, wrench back, gray turnings
of sap greens: rain’s way of backspacing
tints and tones, pixel by pixel, drained,
while further south, along the west-east run of creek, muscat
vines, miles of vines
soar and fall like jumbled ropes turned by school kids
high on coke,
and the white-gold bark on Cottonwoods, storm-
soaked, are all turned black
by wet. All the growing trees, in chaos: red bud,
dogwood, eucalyptus, apple, pear, plum, not one branch
spared horrific winds, every root
knotting tendrils underground to hold, hold,
hold. On the roof a thump so loud you know
an arm’s been broken like a matchstick, but thicker
than a cat or even a goat, and the crack like a gunshot
is further off, beyond the fenceline,
in the field next door where a Valley Oak’s girth
has shattered. Lupine, the seeds,
will not find the sun through this tombstone,
nor poppies, mauve clover, or columbine; bright moss
falls away like pelts from a mammoth body;
Cottonwood Creek swells, spills from its normal vein,
pulls the moss and the hulks of broken woods
to its main and carries them asea
while you key in the demise, power gone
but for this battery cell in a laptop topping your lap,
words, wet on the page, too still for the storm pressing
your windows with absolute wrath. The neighbor’s jute mat
has taken the air, flown with the waggles of Aladdin’s rug,
floats Welcome! in black across a dark sky,
Hear it snap as its roils on the wind?
And the hobnail soles of bootblack clouds
move on, move on, move on.
[original]
The Diggers sway, lean out easy forty-fives
of needled fingers, wrench back, gray turnings
of sap greens: rain’s way of backspacing
tints and tones, pixel by pixel, drained. Below that bluff,
where the road runs tilted for the flood plain, Oaks
thrash the sky,
and further south, along the west-east run of creek, muscat
vines, miles of vines
soar and fall like jumbled ropes turned by school kids
high on coke,
and the white-gold bark on Cottonwoods, storm-
soaked, are all turned black
by wet. All the growing trees, in chaos: red bud,
dogwood, eucalyptus, apple, pear, plum, not one branch
spared horrific winds, every root
knotting tendrils underground to hold, hold,
hold. On the roof a thump so loud you know
an arm’s been broken like a matchstick, but thicker
than a cat or even a goat, and the crack like a gunshot
is further off, beyond the fenceline,
in the field next door where a Valley Oak’s girth
has shattered. Lupine, the seeds,
will not find the sun through this tombstone,
nor poppies, mauve clover, or columbine; bright moss
falls away like pelts from a mammoth body;
Cottonwood Creek swells, spills from its normal vein,
pulls the moss and the hulks of broken woods
to its main and carries them asea
while you key in the demise, power gone
but for this battery cell in a laptop topping your lap,
words, wet on the page, too still for the storm pressing
your windows with absolute wrath. The neighbor’s jute mat
has taken the air, flown with the waggles of Aladdin’s rug,
floats Welcome! in black across a dark sky,
Hear it snap as it roils on the wind?
And the hobnail soles of bootblack clouds
move on, move on, move on.
