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"asafetida" poems
You left nothing, only the Stevens book That read: There is not nothing, no, no never… Nothing and a yellow bicycle: Two tires on a rickety frame. When I do pick up a poem, It’s to hear the gravel cadence of you, Softer, informed by everything that spins: A world, a bicycle, a chestnut tumbling Downhill the city’s painted a roadside path, My collarbone’s begun to mend. The house gets drafty late afternoons So I learn to cook: Turmeric, cayenne. Hing & coriander. cardamom. Cumin & mustard seeds. Hing’s a pungent flower called asafetida And corriander’s just cilantro. Icy fingers spindle wheels on window panes. I leave the teakettle to boil. Spokes of trees shiver in the silverish dusk Taking lessons from everything bare, I let in the cold to hear No stones turned in the drive.
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May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 7:48 AM UTC
kevin-trant
Winter Lessons
You left nothing, only the Stevens book That read: There is not nothing, no, no never… Nothing and a yellow bicycle: Two tires on a rickety frame. When I do pick up a poem, It’s to hear the gravel cadence of you, Softer, informed by everything that spins: A world, a bicycle, a chestnut tumbling Downhill the city’s painted a roadside path, My collarbone’s begun to mend. The house gets drafty late afternoons So I learn to cook: Turmeric, cayenne. Hing & coriander. cardamom. Cumin & mustard seeds. Hing’s a pungent flower called asafetida And corriander’s just cilantro. Icy fingers spindle wheels on window panes. I leave the teakettle to boil. Spokes of trees shiver in the silverish dusk Taking lessons from everything bare, I let in the cold to hear No stones turned in the drive.
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