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Dr. Whitsun Our sperm medicinally coffined. We two men: stucco-eyed, lard-like, pale; no longer butterflies in the breezy hawthorns. We felt the ticking fever-pulse, the glutinous silks of fertile sea-muck, the salty points our dry cliffs vacant. The crisp paper on the exam table, the fecund beach where frozen ova wait, lifejackets in little productive rows.
Waking in Winter
Dead clianthus in pots like hairy skulls. December elms have become iced gloves. Winter's tin crisp taste dulling the night air, the itch and buckle of immobile groves. I cultivate an orchid that asserts itself out of season. Its buds come on like morphine. Flowers are rhetorical, nerves immolate themselves. Petals unfurl impractical tones of August resorts.
Two Campers in Cloud Country
The dawn sloughs these effortless amoebas. Pawing through Cherokee bones, vermin pulse in the public herbage this Pilgrim's month. The sleepy drift of our voices; no word from local trout pulled from stream bottom. The polite horizon balances far off, as we roam North over the frontier. This pasture fire-scored, a gesture proving a dominance not mine, nor yours.
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Andrew Demcak's new book of poetry, Catching Tigers in Red Weather, won the Three Candle Press 2006 Open Book Prize. Its publication is forthcoming from Three Candles Press, and it will be available at Barnes and Noble, Amazon.com and other fine retailers. He is currently working on his second Master's Degree, an MLIS, at U. C. Berkeley. When he is not hard at work driving the Bookmobile for Oakland Public Library, he can be found attending "GuyWriters" poetry readings at Anthony's house in San Francisco , or eating Tibetan momos with his partner, Peter. Viva Wallace Stevens! Read about Andrew at his blog. |
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