Where the brownness of the weeds was beyond compare, weeds
Deep so the tops of fruit trees were lily pads in an old harbor.
Straight across, the wooden house of Preston Sturges,
Moved three miles from the path of the second freeway ever.
Now thirteen people live there in thirteen beds but he never did,
He went to France and never returned.
Two doors down another house of wood and iron,
Green or fresh white, water sprayed everywhere,
At night the mean, thirsty animals come around there,
Prayers go out to them like glass breaking out not in:
Beautiful things, come in here and all my fear will be gone,
Just give me my stone,
Now I know there is joy in every kill,
And a movie's in here somewhere, betcha, betcha.
Susan Lasher
SOMETIMES A MAN TAKES
A
GOOD LOOK AT HIMSELF
Sometimes a man takes a good look at himself;
or tries himself on like an old uniform
just to see if he still fits; or calls
someone up, just out of the blue.
This, then, is the symptom of what great loss?
Of time, of the cunning or crazy apes?
The past is never lost - and never found.
Now, we trust no man to speak of what he's seen.
His own lousy childhood, for example, means
nothing, and each small love or fear blackens
and thickens like tar in his small, cold heart.
The lie begins to form and takes the shape
of the eerie double helix, wrapping the future
around and around itself, its lusty chemicals
and everything there all at once. Who are you,
