Poetry

When I scarcely know what error of mind
made all brick, stucco, ravine, ale, and song fail
and all floorboards flee except 

It hit me in a noisy bistro—

the muted frequency— 
Jimmy Cobb’s brushes were fine sand

I can still see it, just a touch of what
you might call its lip, or maybe a long knife-ready
underbelly. The sturgeon moon is swimming

I am going to disappear in Belmont,
after taking a walk in intermittent rain.
I will vanish one day in Belmont—don’t correct me—

Here’s to 
the innards 
and ubers 

Nobody, my father said, could get so many
scrapes and scratches accidentally:
without them I probably would not have liked it so much.

Requisite dog bark. Far off.
No response.

I say archetype, but I really mean
messenger.

Time to pick berries. This strain (pink when ripe
instead of black) surprises me each August,
although I should be used to it by now.

Bending over the piano,
or putting the oboe to her lips,
she makes music the way a tree