I’m annoyed at the same burdocks,
the same box elders greening, the same yellow rocket
all aglow suddenly now that it’s mid-May,
after months of gray.
How often can I marvel at the cottonwoods’ arch,
the same patch of spreading vetch and bobbing violets?
And then, close by my head,
a violent orange shying,
up into the breezy poplars,
with a syncopated
slurring whistle flies:
tree, deedle dee dee.
And I spy the Oriole returned.
And my heart, sandbag silted,
Osborne once said a hundred pounds would take us to Australia.
I do not know what I need today.
What passage is a hundred pounds?
Osborne was a poet. Sickly.
He died just off the road.
He lay down
watching the spring trees just budding sticky green and blowing so wildly,
eyes to the vaulted sky~~
and then a fly crossed his face and you knew he was dead.
A Poetic Death. And I do not want to die.
I ring you up at 3 am in tears,
my emotions too big for my skin,
My thoughts larger than the darkness:
I don’t want to die.
And you say, “You’re not going to die, go back to sleep.”
I rest my matted hair, my hot cheek,
into the shoulder of your voice.