zafusy

or real thirsty
on a beach in summer
your mouth parts & my name
scatters the birds
until I want to run
like warm water
or my honeybee be
with butter on both
sides of the bread
& that carrot
you picnic from a basket
with our propellers on
or your dress uncorked
& unmakeup a map
to love is my limb
I can crawl out on
or rise up like the sun
to make us a day or
maybe a dog all-night
listless lays down
in one big thud

Maurice Oliver

Let’s begin by drawing a blue doorway. A
beach being searched by a metal detector.
Diamonds in rough gravel. A puddle of ink.
Murky water in a basin. Utility workers. A
group of longshoremen. The dusty shelves
of the earth rolled up then paper clipped. A
bareheaded man standing at the end of the
platform. Artifacts that can unfold themselves.
Words that know how to hang out to dry. A
bluff above the Hudson. A newly renovated
delicatessen. A traffic island willing to endure
any kind of weather. Bats in the belfry. Picture
postcards from Tuscany. Hair tonic. Buttered
toast. A pair of purple pant suspenders & a
crisp white shirt. Ashes from a cold fire. Light
from a warm star. No word from the answering
machine. One doorknob bravely facing the future.

Maurice Oliver

And later
a saxophone emits
the sounds of sugarcane or
Bourbon St. on a warm July night
or a plucking bass is the music of the
living revelry in style or every note a collection
of ancient bones reassembled graciously in a way
that causes enough kinetic energy to make them move.

Maurice Oliver