animal body

The hairs on my body form circles.

Light curls make shapes, ovals, opals.

I find hours to touch them gingerly,

above from the reflection of a pot,

or while standing on an elevator,

I look up, then touch the side of my

ear, where hair forms, returns, pets

and pats itself, like that on my upper

arm, see here now, my cheek, the down.

I’m comforted by my animal being,

who asks for no more ambition than

the breath and a good stretch occasionally.

I’m thrilled with the way it moves, not

through time, not out and long and firm,

but rather into itself, like sleep,

like how I find my form, at dawn.

evening, 1940

words from mister francis ponge:

What is it made of, this pleasure?- Principally of this: the pine woods is a piece of nature, made of trees all of a clearly defined species; a well delimited piece, generally quite deserted, where one finds shelter from the sun, from wind, from visibility; but no absolute shelter, not one completely isolated. No! It is a relative shelter. Not a sneaky shelter, nor a measly one, but a noble shelter.

It's a place too...where development is gradual, natural, without coppicing, without man-high branches, where sprawling out simply occurs, without slackness, but quite comfortably.

Each pine wood is like a natural sanatorium, as well as a music hall...a chamber, a vast cathedral of meditation (a cathedral without pulpit, fortunately) open to all the winds, but through so many doors that it's as if they were closed. For they hesitate there.

...

No laughter, but what salubrious comfort, what a temperateness of elements, what a soberly scented hall of music, soberly adorned, well made for serious walks and meditation.

-francis ponge-

He wiped chalk from his palms and twiddled his fingers and told me to be concerned

with my spleen and the footwear. He arranged his two arms like a cross and said

that I was all funny and off, and did I know what he was saying, yeah? and I looked at

the hills and said I could see them, and he said I couldn't, and I said it's Eve's fault and

he told me I'm her. His eyes seemed translucent and if he were blind I wouldn't be shocked.

Again, with space, he shook his arms in front of me and said to stop using the future,

and stop, knock it off with seeing the idea of mountains, and for seeing the idea as

grand, and what's more, quit it with seeing the idea of grass, and seeing the grass as grand.

two creatures of substance more than us

We often won't stop for pennies, storm clouds, or bags needled on trees,

needing to be collected and recycled.

We won't pull over to pee, sneeze,

or have a good think about what was the name of that singer anyway.

But yesterday, all cars of varying colors stopped

mid mountains, not to observe the historic growth and destruction of rock,

or the pale, small yellow flowers of elevation,

but for the elk.

And not only the elk!

with his heavy antlers which i only know

in the form of low lying branches on old oaks,

with his thick and must be fragrant mane of matted fur,

but also the coyote!

Who jaunted up and past him!

to all of our horror and expectations of disaster!

Cameras were confused, where to shoot!

and the animals apathetically ignored one another

as we jumbled, unevolved in our emotions,

through every possible reaction.

We all stopped,

but the elk never started,

and the coyote continued.

the dog farmer

The leather farmer buried the dog several hours

before I saw it underneath the belly of a car,

running its paws sideways into the air,

calling out like a coyote or a kettle.

The mountains were continuous but for one line

of sweat, beads of automobiles on route 36 streaming,

and I ran towards the thin pearls from the east,

interrupting grasshoppers, also gleaming, shining wet.

It was morning and he was mourning, out there with a golden shovel,

his truck parked asleep on the side of the road,

his forearms capable of transcending time and place,

burying the dog slowly that wasn't yet dead, in his or someone's corn field.

He buried the dog that hadn't yet even gone out for his walk.

He buried the dog that napped,

in morning sun, sleeping, east,

somewhere, on the other side of the city.

floaty me

found this, labelled 4 1/2 on the back by mom

it seems as if i knew

i'd be floating a bit to one side,

looking a little tired, but more so intent