5: “sunburn”
30 days/poetry
deep seeded-downward parts, the rhythm cut on your tongue
like a pit. white-draped girls on porches and the boys, thin smokestacks
going up, standing on their bikes and racing past: gnats rushed
over in a gully of time, getting up again, five or seven years
later and being too tall to stand: the girls blush, secrete
nothing-fluids, turn away. deep secret parts, made unreal in
glitter-heat, old trees bowled over in old men sadness, purple-green
fairy branches trickled against the glass. going up the beach
with the mother, now an old woman, and her legs are strung
out to the sun when nobody looks. deep fable-eaters, makers:
going up to New York to write the story out of you but
it does not work, instead stay — porch like a bower, watching
through the lattice-screens, boys stand on their pedals
and rush, no thought allowed, into marsh-dirt; they dust
themselves off without looking around, no care in the world if
you or anyone else saw them fall.
the last pavilion 