Maxine Chernoff
FOR DAILY USE
"A goddess of misfortune,
a myth of legitimate youth.
Stop." is what my telegram read
and why I later said
October was a punitive drink.
Coffee and landscapes, beards and towers
all aching for the bewilderment of November.
An old woman rested her panic
at a smoky intersection.
I requested the blue highway
on which a march played incessantly
like Disney rehearsing a revolution ....
It
is December. The day travels
with sagging ny lons. Unlike the tension
of barking for vio lence in spring.
Short hours in which to learn
the discreet balance of breath,
what lies beyond it
and what whispers "h emisphere"
always in autumn.
