Parkway

Beaver Creek Road

(march 2007)

No need to get
into a stewpot
with the sacrificial horse

the days of course
streaks of Bovril hot
from a tartan thermos

& the battle of the trees
& the battle of the letters
& the battle between the

the letters & the trees
has got my paternoster threading
his beaded naps past dawn--

I am the falcon
I fly blind
through a progressive sky--

Hampton Hawes
of Hermosa Beach his
harmonium gently weeps

a pastel streak
down a marble cheek
while evening recluses

abandon conclusions
to come in out of the rain
& a lighthouse beam passes

over an eagle-eye
copper moon dangling
over the folds of a felt sweater

in a truck more likely to buck
than switch to premium
for the Parkway--

I am the circling bird
I can smell
your meaty hesitations...

after all's been said the
hammer still falls
on an empty chamber:

Joanna to Goldfinch
a row of Specials
nestled in a ravine

where worn hoops swoon
& the sun don't crest
' til afternoon.