Two Poems

Cento in Four

I

The little notebook of poems in the pocket of a corpse,

At my age, granted, quite a few.

Outside your body is a set of bleachers,

As if they were not men.

II

Why your ear would call by now Elohim—

When we kissed straight on—

I was trying to describe the perfect library

To find, to rip to bits the lips.

III

There’s no reason to horse around

On the tree branch, and the hangman, who is blind

It is not a happy place to be

Let war fade away, let it become.

Mr. Death, when you came to the ovens it was short

By then he will be dead and gone,

An empty bag of Fritos,

A tree stuck in the earth,

An orange radio, green seas

A story laced inside this one—

Leaf! You are so big!

The richest man in Delaware!

IV

I remember Jim Smith’s phone number!

Brainard’s Iron Lung

I tripped on your step. Fell 360 degrees, my tail coiled round. As I swung into position, I passed my mother, black hair, an apron, who wears an apron.

I tripped on your step. From my left, from my right. Two red trucks ran over me. Victor leaned over. Seven dogs sniffed me. A flower grew from my eye like a cliché. The chakra collectors came.

I tripped on your step. What are you doing with your nose down here.  I remained in position, sort of impressed that my nose, stomach and penis could support my weight & the column of air that lay on top.

I tripped on your step. Groceries spilled from my ears.

I tripped on your step. You laughed and it was snow. You laughed and it was like mud sandwiches.

You laughed and I resolved to alert the navy.

I tripped on your step. A green board lay beside me. Although no specific words were exchanged, I understood it wished to be sanded to a beautiful finish & be held against my breast, that is, to be loved.

I tripped on your step. The end.