by Lynn Strongin
WHEN I THREW OPEN YOUR CLOSET I saw an abundance of yellow Dresses. So buy no more.Behind closed doors we sleepSo thin the wind roarsNight pours bees out of hives
I watch sunlight catch it like catching the first train into the cityPouring thru the minute antique glass found at United Thrift:I down to a nubbin of knot colorTime to refresh ourselves by drinking from the old roots what still millpond waterRemainsWhat white water is churningUp newDreamsKicking them as we do leaves in autumn.
IT IS AUTUMNI am still walkingWaking to the dream of writing about an imaginary beingHave I not been with loss long enough?Too long?Or is it just beginningWHEN half gods go, the gods arrive.
I AM CALLING FOR THE BICYCLE THIEF all things are flattened:Pancaked silver soup cans during the war effort:
Trees roadways.Cocoburo, glass with scissorsAntique watch one hundred years old.But coming back I am older, the goldSetting treesReminds me of the plethora of yellowToo bright to holdIt might be fire in shape of shawl or hat:I cannot unlock my past. The prime days of summer are about travel & vacation:My life touches the still point of this turning world:The hard drive cased in transparent plastic to protectAll my ribboned & unribboned words. If I can make peace with tieBy late noon thing uncrumple
Like owls coming out of hiding to brave the earliest darkIn which perhaps I am dwelling:Nothing precisely wrongBut Lord things could not be rightExcept you guide me thru this song.
PREFER NOTHING TO THE LOVE OF CHRIST Saint Benedickt saysHow to be monastic and keep your day job:
Mine writing sheaves arranged like the burst, the flood of lemon colored garments, jonquilWhich hits the closet-opener in the face.Yet one wants stability as numerals climb, the clock ticking in the breviary style of the bones.I picture Goya’s mired men fighting with cudgels.The weaponized word mires the mind.With silent pastels we will be painted in the kingdom of the deaf. Where does the Mississippi carve its mud-dark paths?Our pasts converge:Life in a southern shack of reused lumber and here.Where have I changed my course? Point to polio but that’s too simple.And complexAs wrought silver tooled by hand.
One hundred years ago a woman sat in a parlorHer clothes, preserved behind glass, like confederate soldiers’ shrink to doll size.A doll one would lift tenderly in the handsExamining eye-socketsMouth which chips, kapok stuffingClothespin limbsEvery day I think tenderly of you, touch gently since age can crumble to dustLimbsAt touch.You have told me little; but enough to make me aware as the ferret or red fox in snow:You have told me little but I wake longing, so not enough. Never enough.