“Memory is our divine aspect.” —Paul Foreman
for T. Nordstrom
I only knew your dwelling, the swell
of rusted car doors rising out of the earth.
If there ever was a womb I could rest,
I found it in the center of the living room.
A scouler willow clutches blithe tears.
And for one night we grazed
the landscape of your poems:
the six-day war, the sacred feminine.
And after we smoked divine grass
your poems hung
on the tree’s branches raised
to the skylight along with the aromas
of whiskey, baby spinach, chilé con carne
and flour tortillas. Gold fish from your pond
flipped and dashed at the arrival
of so much blue overhead.
Your beard to your toes hugs
your lithe flesh, its tail swinging
you at the trunk. You, howler monkey
snatching your chance at the golden fig tree.
We are starving for these places.
Every thing circling on the willow
like an infant’s mobile,
has lived mostly in the southwest working various jobs and now find himself living in