The translucent tip of a condom
on the sidewalk through the rain
of elm seed: sex in cars / sex for money
just another cultivar. A dozen hollow-cheeked
mattresses in the alley make a house of cards
while shoes twirl & two-step from wires. The overhead toss,
the answering gesture of shoes filling with rain.
The Portuguese man daydreaming of strips
of soft rag & vines as thick as swollen fingers.
He – we, they – bear the newsprint shadow
of the man beaten to death
with a post from our fences-make-good-neighbours
philosophy one street over. When a woman
in a fuchsia hijab hovers by I want to say
that above the chemical wash / the clever
mimicry her cheek is plump
& tender but she looks
* * *
This is my last May Day poem. While I didn't write as many poems as I would have liked over the course of the month, I did okay. Some city poems, some baby poems, some how-to poems.
And last night, at Speaking Crow, I emerged from behind my bookseller's table and read two of my May Day poems to the crowd. I quavered a little, but I did okay.
I think I'll continue to read at Speaking Crow, in the interest of improving my performance a little, in the interest of trying out new work.
There'll be Speaking Crows on the first Tuesday of both July and August, so if you'd like to join me, feel free...