The Book with the Yellow Cover | Page 2

sap rising
in its own sweet time.
April, Maine
Alexis
Icons, coal mines, Ten Mile Creek,
the Monongahela,
a long way to
this house
by the Kennebec,
sitting erect,
brushing your hair,

fire and peace in your cheeks,
preparing for the further
steppes of
feeling.
Back In Town
Billy Frailly's got a new shirt,
shaved and walking down the road

ready for anything.
When I was in fifth grade
Billy powered his
bike up Church Hill

(black Stetson, yellow kerchief).
I helped him
shovel out Mrs. Cowell's
parking place. He did most of the work,

but he split the money fifty-fifty.
He's an outcast now;
no frontier

he can reach.
But he's not crying, and we know
there is no virtue,
only consequence
and the sometimes music
of a new shirt.
Woodstock
Bluejay Feather
Bluejay feather
in the grass.
Something was here
once,
A flash
of color,
a harsh cry,
and it was gone.
The feather remains:

tough, precise,
useful
For Sylvester
On his 40th

Talking To Myself
Early dark blue, one jet trail
arching past Venus,
snow coming
tomorrow.
My mother,
unable to move.
Hit it down the road,
seven hours,
stand by her bed,
acknowledge the bond of blood,

the sensitivity
she could never handle,
that I have ridden to beauty

beyond all expectation.
Wilson Street
Low gray sky.
Cold. Still.
Christmas tree upside down,
tinsel on
dirty snow.
A yellow balloon
bounces slowly
across Wilson
Street.
A black cat
glides three steps up,
turns in a doorway.
Portland
On Looking At A Mediocre Painting
Thin paint. No passion.
We would agree, I know,
although we met
only once--
some things are in the blood.
Mustard, orange, navy
blue
around a fake significance.
The loss of Ireland, the 19th century,
what were you to do?

Fuck the beautiful, the gifted
(my mother before she went crazy);

leave the clanging cockroach cold
behind (Bobby);
find the best
(Pollock, Kline,
Noguchi, Nakian),
live uptown (Kevin);
die
finally.
Well, ashes to ashes then.
But the three of us--your sons,
scattered to separate lives--
one way
or another
we carry you on,
this eye,
this fist within.
Sean
Every Moment
Sun warms
one side of the alley.
A young woman smiles at me,

surprised by her new beauty.
Sex, tenderness, cobblestones.
Once I
was a Venetian
with my last gold coin.
Once I broke my vows

and left the Order.
Arms around her legs,
the blue milk crate
on
which she sits, the
kitchen door propped open
with a mop--every
moment
like this.
Portland
For Tamey
Drove over the bridge today,
saw the water far below
and once
again imagined
your last jump--
desperation, pain, relief,
a twist
of gallantry
across your face,
your final bow to the truth
you
always told me to tell.
You sure as hell saved my life.
Tamey, I
could never say goodbye.
I miss you. I wish
you could have played
with Finnegan.
Rough cloth,
the gathering of giant ferns
woven together, supple,
bending,
energy moving up your spine,
mind dancing in the night,

Palm Tree Exercise.

Kailua
The Early Ones
Black night turns dark blue,
a wedge of lighter blue,
dim gray.

Outposts on the beach
become aware of each other:
narrow stones

aligned to the east,
grouped around a driftwood stick
sixteen
inches high.
In an hour--
sheltered by grass, overhanging
edge of
the continent--
they will cast long thin shadows;
they will be first,

brave against the day.
For an anonymous sculptor,
Crescent Beach, Maine
Warm Sake
Warm sake, sashimi maguro,
blood red slices on a wooden block,

light green chicory, pickled ginger.
Outside: harbor ice rocking in the
tide,
translucent, thin dark edges
swirling in black water.
Shiki
Portland

Leaving Finn
Las Cruces at dusk,
necklace on the desert.
Back in Tucson, Finn

recovering from surgery,
sweat on his nose,
trying to smile,
whispering,
"Have a good trip, Dad."
Late Breakfast
Red nails,
gold cigarette,
young pampered mouth,
hair drawn
back,
a sense of having reached
her limits,
a perfect twenty-two.

There was a moment
when she chose all this.
I must begin again,
without shame.
Wailana Coffee Shop

Honolulu

Spring Dream of SueSue
Perfectly quiet
a trout lets me hold him.
You surface laughing,
dark hair,
blue shirt unbuttoned.
March
Lament For Paul
Scratching your beard, excited,
"Fantastic," you said about
the
Beatles' new record.
The next night you played
your own shy songs,
surprising us.
You were crushed beneath your car,
but your songs,
Paul, I heard them.
We all heard them.
Woodstock
For Coyote
I think of you drinking, dancing,
unable to sleep, reading until first
light,
a blanket drawn around your shoulders,
afternoons, working
your wheel until
the time to mingle with true hearts,
raise glasses,
hug, laugh,
help as you can.
We are all dying, slower or faster,
but
it hurts to watch.
And out of the numb exuberant wreckage of your
days
come these raku pots--
graceful open shapes, lines freely

scratched into the clay, deep turquoise,
copper glazes, extravagant,
surprised,
too beautiful for tears.
After Months
Shifting unstable air,
patches of light,
raindrops standing on
the
candy red gas