Grass Moon and Other Poems

Grass Moon

My whole body is warm and sticky

like a child’s car seat

just waiting, just waiting,

in the dark

the blue heron that lives

in Laurelhurst Park is breathing

and there is a wind

that is coming all over the flowers

and all the ferns. I’m on my way

to myself, that’s what I’m told, that’s what

all the people who want me

to be alive keep saying,

they keep standing on the beach

wearing old-fashioned swim trunks

with a bullhorn telling me about it,

and you are home in your bed

like a soft animal with really intense

feelers and a kind of knowledge

some people have to go out

into the desert to get,

some people have to take drugs for that

and walk barefoot over coals

and pretend that nature is a mother

always wringing her hands

over her lost children.

I’m making a museum for myself

out of pictures of people

I used to know and hold and their brains

are like carnations floating in milk

when I think of them I think

what do I really want

out of this branch I picked up off the street

which does not belong to me at all.

Last night I asked the ceiling

what was going to happen,

and it said this is what

is going to happen: you will have to

stay in your body for much longer

than you really want to,

and I thought about how nice it felt

the first time I shaved my head

and walked out into the rain

and how the rain walked

all over my head

and how when I hear someone yelling

something at someone else,

when I hear someone throwing

something across a room,

I want the world to be my laundry—

quiet and good and neatly folded away.
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