by Lisa Marie Popp
Look, the dandelions
and their seeds,
How wild the shoots, willows in March
and a cloud, as if weather taught progress,
shifts the duck inland.
Your light meter flickers.
Eels that were on the track of cows
stop for two seconds,
and pray, until it liquifies,
to the milk: a gritty photo.
I make a mark, erase it with the next.
The chickens, nuns, birds, the scarecrows
and coming home,
talked into the ground radical,
if I went faster, mushrooms came to meet me:
love engendering heavenward.
Look, the running wild horse accelerates,
the snail it straddles
Look how the cooking woman in me
squeezes lemons with her swollen hand:
See what I exclude.
Your changing shutters.
Your little handbags of pills
and clenched tears.
Jesus, snap my footsteps!
the remnants, the bottles, and my cigarette butts
which i inhale, for days, to honor you
and prove myself: the smoke.
Little obsession slip of a thing
but it eats and drinks
what i provide: the lettuce with onion,
a rapid brush sketch,
and mystified: crashing apples with silence,
have i bequeathed.
now, now and now!
Agfa color, Agfa color declare the ducks
colored on shallow water.
But my dream is grey etched
and rained out, on both banks of the river
Suddenly, again, feeling
Stutter on fresh paper
as if your angels, the flys,
had no quarrel here.
Face to face they stand, estranged,
wait for the fluke, form a legend….
He wiped the sweat off with his napkin,
and handed down his face.
Evening tide, i keep on drawing,
so that the flood,
this, that, and you, too,
figured into sand,
if, like dust, i could no longer
attach myself to me.
Whatever crowds in, heaps up, accumulates
Whatever brings a space
all its own
Now I am the teacher and still am amazed….
Look how freely in this space i am,
and sieve the blackness, gray, grey,
the compulsion that insists on white.
Look at the closed eye,
Look at the doll,
Now the visitors have gone.
Look at the table used
The bones of the bones
Carefully, the light touch:
in your praise.