By Margaret Lemay-Lewis
Star Kite
Sand digger, joints poised,
thinking wants friends to play with. Ah, me. Ah, the never
again will do rims the canyon. Sets the record
for a woman running thus said
gives to you, gives in to you because simpler
I is watching a man
limp, toss a stained bag between southside and recent
adulthood showing its
dissonant skylights
a banana smashed in a fist
suspects the right thing, drinking its foam, its la-la-la terribly
grates over the shops
and the caulk silent. Where free to
runs fingers down the grimed skylights
is watching
the boy spins and the boy
wagons the hill, freedom
stuck to the bumper. Blue, limp and how sad, the wet
inner explosion, the sky tugging the kite
whereon
How high can your kite fly? Ceramic and ground pepper
sky, the century link prairie fire
heart amass strings, leaves
this still shooting.
Fair Wedding
its mare, its truck climbs old mine
mud runs 100
heat and loudspeaker
wedding
hills, coaster pit, elaborate operation what we
water piped in
the wedding dress, canary
ties, white shoes to better bull
-dozers, -slingers
-boys. Outcast, stained shirts I wants
and the filter smokes
the hand on the stroller bar engines
catgut, goat’s-rue, he, at first game clapping,
covers his small
trucks:
cry for what’s wrong
with the cranial, what’s wrong
with that kid, walking back into
the blessed, anonymous
night Lincoln-inaugurate everywhere
driving
a sciatic sky, driving means
a nebula drowning its shallows.
