Monday, January 01, 2007
from a favorite poet friend at Texfiles, Kate Greenstreet * :
Leaving the Old Neighborhood
In the dream I slept all night and you were a saint, your shirt stained yellow near the heart, spontaneously, blue under the arms.
It turns out to be music, our prayers-- we went out to tell our mother in her bulb-lit grotto. Chipping a little, but she still looks great, her arms outstretches and her veil, refuge of sinners, cause of our joy.
Wisdom had built herself a house in the dream, I was twins, I was looking for something.
How can the poet be called unlucky who rides on the back of the colt?
*
Galka (little bird)
Sometimes you sleep well, sometimes not at all dabchick, the little grebe, the pie-billed grebe Grief. More filings. A hill in snow, a valuable ring. People gathered we were trying to join.
I should have been a lonely scientist, she told me then. People expect more from an artist.
What's missing in books of poetry? A regular greeting, a couple of maps, a good-looking equation.
* Kate Greenstreet, Learning the Language (San Francisco: Etherdome, 2005)
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