This morning, the Lord
sent me a bill
for the wine.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 31 March 1660.
Remission
Robin
The hills this morning
belong to that one voice
cleaving the silence open.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
And yet
the world has me too:
its dips and rises, that
light I chase from one
end of the day to the other,
the always-beginning-again
a needle that threads floss
through loop after loop
in a chain making daisies
and clouds and rain—
So near sometimes, so close
to gossamer joy I think
almost if I closed my eyes
I might find, by feel,
the coat that I rent,
the love that was lost,
the house that the years
ransacked to ruin.
In response to small stone (229).
Disordered
A lute done in gold, this din
everything out
of order was pleased with:
my discovered love.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 30 March 1660.
Rite
We lie still, she on me—effigies
making a great whispering,
satisfied and soon hushed.
Vice-tested, we sup
in the master bed.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 29 March 1660.
Overhead, the thin high whistle of a tree sparrow—
Does it mean the gods are always watching,
does it mean You there, don’t get too happy, too proud,
too comfortable, too far ahead of yourself? Does it mean
abandon all hope for no good deed goes unpunished,
and only the fat, well-heeled, well-fed, undeservedly
happy are sure to get that reward plus bonus they don’t
even need? Perhaps I have thrown caution out the window
and forgotten how to be circumspect. Perhaps
the bittersweet blooms, the new buds of hydrangea pushing
out from winter’s brown bramble have plucked at a nerve—
and also the speckled blue eggs only big as my thumb
that some snake, trawling the garden, must have found.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
[poem removed by author]
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Prisoner
This grave or prison, the heart—
who could remember
what it was like to be released?
I went with a bottle or two
hunting for friends.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 28 March 1660.
Fleet
A fair fleet fell into vice.
Frigates did us in, broke,
creeping at the scuttle,
the sea exceeding us
in business and in bed.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 27 March 1660.
Bridge
Just look— how each
skinned thing sheds flake
after flake of surface,
detritus of dead cells and dust—
But how the callus grows in layers,
proportionate to the weight
and frequency, the heart leaning
hard into the wood, that place
where music hides—
In response to small stone (226).