The Arc of Something

The slots of the bark are full of pincher bugs, although,

they may be beneath stones, or

in the cracks of the driveway. “How do you do?” said the Tuckertoo to

the building on fifth avenue. Its true

that the build up is like an I-beam hanging from a crane and

that the brain is a lumpy webcast in the wind and that

there is a tree on the corner near my house that

has weeds and brown oak leaves beneath it. A poke may be a pinch but

the delineation seems rather like the blue metro line. The digging

of the sweet melancholy finds, often, in the tide of nimbus clouds,

finds often that there are leaves and rough stones beneath the tree and that

landing a plane is not really hard at all and that people think that the autopilot does it and that

very well may be true

 

But I don't discourage it and

I don't see the roof of my bedroom,

I get too hot beneath my blanket and croon

at the white crane moons of saturn. The slather

is covered in gravity; orson welles looks up from his plate.

I am sitting on a bench dedicated to someone who died.

I am standing on the back of the bench and jumping

in a direction that is very difficult to convey, we’ll call it

The innermost ring of the cherrycrab tree. It is truly hard to see

when in the dead dark of the pincher bug carcass,

where the hollow curve of the walls sound

like scattered fumes

 

It's rather rude to assume that someone wants another glass of milk

from the empty carton, even if its a cartoon carton, even if the happy sun

has a pair of glasses,

even if the tuckertoo says that “yes,

they definitely have two lenses”

 

The setting sun has always bugged astronomers, but that doesn’t mean they watch

the oceans rise.

The wind picks up grains of sand and

sets them back down

somewhere along the tan

canvas, the flat

tarmac

 

The milky defendant is tying his shoe in the light of the park

where his transgression seems utterly important not important not at all like

the smile the tuckertoo gave the incidental building face, all neatly wrapped in brown paper,

with that twine string bow holding

its cubic form together, like water, the

outstretched hands of the tuckertoo hold a cherrycrab,

it pinches his fingers lightly, “the one to two, then, the two to one” he says,

flattening his palms a little

---

1

2