Give me the Horn
Keep your long wooden necks
and your nylon strings.
Throw your thin sticks to the sky.
Leave the cymbals tight-lipped,
toss the triangle, snap the bow.
Give me the horn-
pucker up and blow.
Press lips to the smooth brass
and blast your way through.
Let breath become throat
become mouth and song.
Purr the smooth black silk
of a single spoken word.
Scream like a wildcat
on a brick-faced wall.
Grieve the tears of a woman
in the close-throated night.
Pack away your flimsy reeds-
the new hero is horn.
Shine him with your sleeve,
finger his strong metal bones.
But mostly, let him dance
in the click of your heel.
Rain, today
They said it wouldn’t rain today,
the man on the tv told me;
accountant-faced
and smugly dressed.
They said it wouldn’t rain today,
but here it is;
as slow and thin
as memory,
as light as a sigh.
The dogs pace the
cold wooden floors,
whistling their discontent
through flared nostrils.
They said it wouldn’t rain today,
I tell the dogs,
watching my boots by the back door
fill up with rain,
and your limp shirt on the line.
The birds have left the sky
though I hear them calling still.
They said it wouldn’t rain today
but here it is
cold as kisses
warm as blood.
After the Flood
Laughter like a winter creek
sadness like a flood
I'm crying you a swollen river
bursting banks
tonguing cheeks
I'm filling up the belly
with this brackish overflow
brimming the cup
spilling the milk
tipping the ink
And this dark perfume
rotten, peeling bark
where once we lemon-sipped
Sink like a soul
made of smooth stone
and the sound, the sound
like a faraway kiss
