KITCHEN WINDOW
Your three sea stones
dignified and serene
sit still on my sill.
They are stationed between
the picture of Trent
and the one of my mom
by the taps
(they're turned off)
and the radio
(on)
between cat food and coffee
and salt and teaspoons
where the sunlight slides in
on these cold afternoons.
1994
ELECTRIC NIGHT INCIDENT
The night sky
is a purple-black skin
stretched tight across the universe.
Grab a fistful and pull hard:
It unadheres with a soul-shattering, spine-tingling
THWOP.
There is a smell
like electric dinosaurs
in lemonade.
Now you've got the night sky
in your grasp. It is cold
and it stains your hands a bit.
Suddenly
the kitchen window slaps up;
Your mother's voice cuts to you:
“Put. That. BACK!”
Your mother has never
taken no for an answer.
So you hold onto the night sky
for a moment (o what is this taste o what is this smell?)
And then you throw it,
pizza-style,
overhead.
It adheres to the atmosphere
with a hiss.
You just stand
and suck night sky juice
off your freezing fingers.
1986