from an end is the towards to —Hugh Behm-Steinberg
These nervous teachers, their ideas lace like
hidden promises nothing brilliant is ever
in front of you, never has the name you call it,
you and your keys, like there’s a dog just eager to go
out just waiting you are where you’re supposed
to be, when you’re supposed to be there.
The way plants taste bitter, the shore, used to
know the names of your teachers, an island
because you divide yourself. Nobody grades your
efforts anymore, be longitudinal some more.
Says who’s a faucet now and no one answers.
Won’t explain any of them don’t understand
by comparison getting better by ignoring feelings,
getting better at trust, the words to sing along to
repeating like a rifle, like believing the tongue
all the time: talk so much it’s getting easier it’s
being surrounded and let go it’s repeating you
under the action is the part that loads an ending
that goes backward and cracks open and fires upon,
try to be what’s the matter you’re mostly water.
Like a song that means breath, that means outlasting,
have a wheel it’s a good thing don’t tell anyone like
a bird who copies your ekg, a tree that has no insides
so when you touch it you go all the way through it doesn’t
hurt time is made mostly of beginnings don’t spend it being
a circle let someone twist you let someone call you a cup
from which to drink from stands for dreaming yet or described
often thinking so not going to tell you what or share birth
stains or it looks like someone pinched your head shut
it’s amazing what you (already) know how to do.
Your barricades your thread towns the stone
thread in the stone shirt nobody can hurt
you that’s not true they break the heads off
statues all the time the arms and legs too like
how to rock backed up in the delays of speaking,
as in the great hammering that made you pick it
up put it down in numbered fragments
a stone iris in your stone eye got a stone hair
on your bald stone head you smoke a single
cigarette it burns forever then the vandals come.
Patrick T. Reardon