25/26

i
hidden deep with the protective custody of
the complete jane eyre
i found, last night, a photograph
a woman feeding pigeons in William's Park
when i took the photograph (at 17) i thought
sweet, fat old lady feeding pigeons on a bench
"real life reportage"
i caught a pigeon sitting on her hand
her smile behind dark glasses
i never noticed that her sandals
were perfect snowdrift white
that her legs were bare and rather nice
or that she wasn't very old
at all.

ht

ii
i smell diesel
my old perfume
and long
for a home
with sails
and a mast
and a horizon
as vast
as the sea.

ht.


i am finding this project more difficult than i expected. i had forgotten that i have to dig for good poetry, as much as i have to dig for good prose. it requires a few moments of quietude, preferably a cup of tea, and a clean kitchen. i have been posting a quantity of crap poetry of late, leading me to decide that i will continue to write every day but give myself the option of not posting rubbish. in that vein, i will start re-reading all my poetry books. starting with wendell berry.
here's to better poetry. ht.