Dangerous Goods. Sean Hill

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      statues, parks, theaters, and museums.

      The Tate Britain houses a piece by Richard Dadd—

      a nineteenth century Brit.

      Killed his father and lived a long life

      in asylums painting fairy landscapes.

      The soundtrack for this solitary sojourn

      quiet and incidental like the puzzle piece

      found face down when I disembarked at Heathrow—

      a dreary oatmeal until turned over to reveal

      no pattern, a solid green, unexpected—

      hard to place like the tune the guy on the Tube whistled

      now rattling my head or the dead pigeon I saw

      from Westminster Bridge yesterday floating in the Thames

      —wings slightly out somewhere mid-flap—either fluttering

      down on sidewalk clutter or clapping away

      from the progress of pedestrians—

      flying on the waves of tour boats’ wakes.

POSTCARD TO ANNA

       for A. Potter

      In Cairo I missed street pigeons; they were

      not there at the open-air eatery where

      I dined with Jasmine off Talaat Harb

      when the morsel of macaroni missed

      my mouth. I only saw pigeons on menus

      and the backseat of a Peugeot in and atop

      a sturdy-looking wooden cage because

      the cage door was open. There were

      no sparrows to clean up my mess either.

      We found them on a menu a few days

      later. The waiter hesitated, then translated

      the Arabic for our table, and we said Yes,

      we want sparrows. The hesitation at bones

      holding up, resisting the jaw, my maw,

      those bones for tendons to bind muscles

      to and help buoy that tiny body above

      the flow of folk with their sedentary

      urban tendencies, a mouthful that came

      with a people stopping by this river,

      edged with papyrus that they beat flat

      and dried brown to leave notes for each

      other. They were delicious, those sparrows,

      in their port wine sauce.

POSTCARD TO MY THIRD CRUSH TODAY

      I’ve been on the move; the bottoms

      of my shoes have rested on forty-eight states,

      six Canadian Provinces, seven countries,

      three continents, and the crush is constant.

       You look like someone’s daughter;

      I find that so attractive. I once

      thought this, but now it’s someone’s

      mother or aunt more often than not

      or cousin or uncle or brother or son

      on occasion. The crush is everywhere,

      or maybe it’s me, my luck, like always

      seeing the corner crooners by the storefront

      of The Heart, loitering—singing for quarters

      and grins. Most days I can count on the first

      and second crush, and sometimes there’s a fifth

      or sixth. They’re as likely not to notice me

      as to smile in my eyes. Either way my heart

      skips like those flat stones that kiss the skin

      of the pond and fly off again before sinking.

      Today it is you in that polka dot dress I need

      to thank for getting me to three. The Heart’s

      a big chain; there’s one everywhere you go,

      and they rarely have those No Loitering signs.

      You’re more likely to see No Solicitations.

      I’ll leave this postcard here for you to find.

DISTANCE BETWEEN DESIRES

      From the moon to the end of this poem

      hums the distance between desires.

      In troughs of night Jasmine slept,

      numb from the consumption of rays

      from the moon. Through to its end, this poem

      fends off desire. A toast to the heavy

      drum that pulls us daily and urges that we

      hum the distance. Between desires,

      men scoff at the moon, hung lightly to shine

      plum-dark nights, as they measure breaths

      from the moon to the end. Of our poems,

      ends tossed out to hold them off, we hope

      some may say they rumble on and pleasingly

      hum the distance between. Desires

      bend us and bend. Doff your hat, where I come

      from, a show of respect. Desires plumb where we come

      from. The moon to the end of this poem

      lends soft light. As one desire leaves another

      hums СКАЧАТЬ