In animism everything
is inhabited by a spirit.
Gods are in and of all things.
On this first hot day of Spring
all of the spirits have packed up
and left their bodies behind.
Even the tea I drink is a liquid
snake skin rolling limply down
my throat and staying dead in my belly.
Even I am simply a body today.
My heart is a ghost town with
a rusty weather vane still creaking.
I'm back to writing a poem every day, whether they stink or not.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
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Blog Archive
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2006
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April
(29)
- Poem
- The Man in Your Garden
- Giving up T.V.
- Jaw
- Habit
- The Coffeeshop's Last Week
- Lost Things
- Driving Tired at Night
- Ecdysis
- Work Routine
- The Imagination of Fathers
- Ugly Days
- ...But the Rent's Low
- Poems That Fail
- Creation
- Hometown
- Acceptance
- Losing the National Debate--A Consolation
- Responsibility
- One Man Down
- Influence
- The Workers Wait Out the Tornado
- Violence of Mind
- Love Note to Me, from Me
- Arguments at Work
- Morning, Early Spring
- Night
- Weather Change
- Routine
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April
(29)
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