First, a tundra in stasis;
a white-*****, emptied book
whose unmade letters sleep:
icy, furled, and blank. Then,

breath; a near audible thawing
of unbridled shapes and mute fire;
now, the bright stampede. Hooves
breaking into the field. Next,

words.

coffee
acrid and black
i love you

struggle
unending
you school me

life
acrid and black
i love you

if i had a hammer
i'd hammer in the morning
probably not in the evening
and definitely not all over this land

if i had a hammer
i'd be tools down around midday
but that's just me

A weight bearing down
on the yellowed bed, in the used room
indelibly,

the way memory indelibly shapes
judgement and its content.
And by the bed, a yellow daisy

capturing sunlight, mourns
its brief and trembling time
as if its vase were an urn
and now, despite the brilliance, were ashes.

By Carrie Fountain


Just now it has come
to me again: the sudden
knowledge of everything
that remains to be done
though I worked my *** off
this week, doing things, doing
things. What is my style?
is a question I have never
asked until now, in the waiting
room at my dentist’s,
when this article in O Magazine
encouraged me so cunningly
to do so. Maybe it is not
my job to surprise you, not
anymore, says the spirit.
O.K., I say. O.K. But still,
I want one more crisp
image, just one, though I know
I don’t deserve it, I want it
to appear the way money once
or twice in my life has appeared
in my line of vision on
the street: some bill, nearly
alive, green god, its skin
giving off evergreen light,
unaccounted for and then
immediately mine, no
questions asked.

orchids, three days in the vase,
bent-stemmed and dropped heads hung;
the pollens filter the tabletop with
a coughed out dust across which
noon shade, interrupted by light, grows.
The shrinking water has stained the glass
to darken into a pool of brass and stench.
Above the vase a craze of tiny flies hover
like a troubled thought in a comic strip.

Not less because in purple I descended
The western day through what you called
The loneliest air, not less was I myself

What was the ointment sprinkled on my beard?
What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears?
What was the sea whose tide swept through me there?

Out of my mind the golden ointment rained,
And my ears made the blowing hymns they heard.
I was myself the compass of that sea:

I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw
Or heard or felt came not but from myself;
And there I found myself more truly and more strange.