Wedge. A great word
caught in my beak.
Wedge heel. Can’t be
caught in the grate.
Wedge the budgie
in his cage.
A wedge of geese
honk no surrender in a
Wedgewood sky. The manuscript
wedged under my door keeps it open.
The fifty-year-old house
How happy she was she didn’t buy it:
a rooming house, abortion clinic.
Finally, burnt out.
The unhappy house.
No one ever loved it.
-photo Harry Rajchgot
She brings you down
She brings you down to her level,
splits with a flick.
I don’t mind her house of moods.
chocolate boxes rattle, full of shells.
Once you’re there, give up;
there won’t be any signals.
And what’s so funny about dipping your knife in tea,
when what you wanted was honey?
The fields begin to sheathe themselves
The fields begin to sheathe themselves in some
soft metal underfoot as they ripen
into hardness. The air quiets. Except
for Christmas’ three-week hum, traffic thins.
Some life has left the earth, been driven down
and in. The metal spreads its silent hymn
that sings of hardship, night; of frozen beings,
their signals lost; records the broken keen
of almost dogs. They spread out as they run
for meat. Under the trees their lines bisect
the rabbits’ shorter curves. Life joins life:
gray fur, brown fur, metallic scent of blood.