Dale Smith
3 poems
**
Some birds hum or seem to. Feathers flap sides. Cool, damp weather. Watch them. Ugly grackles sack the upper branches. Some birds high above. Buzzards circle the circle of our yard. Circle the circle of the child on the walk holding chalk. Pink lines. Yellow. A bicycle. Flat. Bring ourselves thus. Figuring out the gag reflex. Feather on the lawn. Feather of a feather. Grey movement on the skyline. Spring’s fine greenery. An element of decay. Why “element?” What significance does it relate? Some birds arranged as random pattern. A man’s words and beery breath. A decay settles from a distance. Moving in to assume roles. Suppose life. “Life,” really? Could it happen opposite the shit. Bird droppings and chick weed. A sidewalk white with grackle poop. The toddler’s bare feet. Point him. Lift him over. The shit. The white grackle shit. For nothing. Cleanliness. His black feet spared. A sky going. A way toward an impossible apprehension. Impossible, why? Only for the actual. Words some birds hum to. Hum of feathers. Hum of home. In the branches. Say we. Say we hear them. Birds. Featherless. Green. Monk parakeets. Here. Hear what? Hear what here’s the sound of.
**
Go long day growing. In the even season we. Sun in tree limbs turns. May the hands they find in them be. A man and woman mind these movements—boy to girl. Lay a wreath of primrose jasmine on her head. Low branches hung with pretty yellow. Some up in the yard ride bikes. A man and woman mind. No sweetness in mountain laurel leaves. Purple Kool-Aid scent in purple blossoms. Dear old sun turning. Sky spreads even cloudless stream. We who would listen. Someone’s loud voice comes. Take the hands of little ones. Cars neat as weapons run. Have nothing. Have eyes. The surface of a cheek’s tear running. He. “He,” my love, sun turning. And this: “my love.” As nothing needs a hearing. That said a lie comes same as lips. Sweet said deeds of day long growing. Did we see a car? Much earlier before our race. “Race,” a fugitive trace of what’s left. Minding ourselves in the yard. Meet what sweet worth we deem. No good deeds no going. We. A shape of shadow but not a man. A boy runs to embrace a girl. And silent in limbs they. Hold against growing shade. Nodes give green and pink beginnings. Of spring and its ritual. Brutal dull thud of day. Again going. Again.
**
Wine late night spring comes. Near the noise of outside. Engines distant. Voices follow the breeze. My green shirt sticks to skin. Damp night air close in the house. So tired. Not wanting to. Speak words that refuse to be. Taken alive and stripped. Seize the quiet moment to be nothing. Warthogs of the head. They and we. Hear their coming. To be alive. Drinking wine on grainy wood table. Blood in a toddler’s eye. Sleep. Step. Sleep. No dreams to draw us near. Membrane of day’s surface. Horrible morning waking. Observe his closed lids. The curve of lip and cheek. Blood stains his mouth. Outside night noise returns. A “turning to language.” These words. “Me.” Go in. There. “My” “love” you now. Say it, love of you knowing. The “con” in confidence. Fido a dog’s name being. Scripted on how we lay sound. Sweet surface of form dreaming. They and we without. Knowing how to move forward. The failure of category creeps in. How I wanted to be seen as what I “am.” Now a question, this “am.” Shakespherian, “to be, or…” As of now new life ends. Can it be? This ending. In sleep to weep the cells. Waking. They and we. As we are I am. Awful burden to slump. Sink with slug views of. Wine stains shirtsleeves. Wind brings traffic softly fallen. No stars.
**
return to sawbuck 1.5
**
Dale Smith lives in Austin, Texas, with the poet Hoa Nguyen and their children, Keaton and Waylon. He is the author of American Rambler, The Flood and the Garden, and My Vote Counts. Poems, essays, and reviews have appeared in Damn The Caesars, Origin, Jacket, and Best American Poetry 2002.
**
Here
Some birds hum or seem to. Feathers flap sides. Cool, damp weather. Watch them. Ugly grackles sack the upper branches. Some birds high above. Buzzards circle the circle of our yard. Circle the circle of the child on the walk holding chalk. Pink lines. Yellow. A bicycle. Flat. Bring ourselves thus. Figuring out the gag reflex. Feather on the lawn. Feather of a feather. Grey movement on the skyline. Spring’s fine greenery. An element of decay. Why “element?” What significance does it relate? Some birds arranged as random pattern. A man’s words and beery breath. A decay settles from a distance. Moving in to assume roles. Suppose life. “Life,” really? Could it happen opposite the shit. Bird droppings and chick weed. A sidewalk white with grackle poop. The toddler’s bare feet. Point him. Lift him over. The shit. The white grackle shit. For nothing. Cleanliness. His black feet spared. A sky going. A way toward an impossible apprehension. Impossible, why? Only for the actual. Words some birds hum to. Hum of feathers. Hum of home. In the branches. Say we. Say we hear them. Birds. Featherless. Green. Monk parakeets. Here. Hear what? Hear what here’s the sound of.
**
Again
Go long day growing. In the even season we. Sun in tree limbs turns. May the hands they find in them be. A man and woman mind these movements—boy to girl. Lay a wreath of primrose jasmine on her head. Low branches hung with pretty yellow. Some up in the yard ride bikes. A man and woman mind. No sweetness in mountain laurel leaves. Purple Kool-Aid scent in purple blossoms. Dear old sun turning. Sky spreads even cloudless stream. We who would listen. Someone’s loud voice comes. Take the hands of little ones. Cars neat as weapons run. Have nothing. Have eyes. The surface of a cheek’s tear running. He. “He,” my love, sun turning. And this: “my love.” As nothing needs a hearing. That said a lie comes same as lips. Sweet said deeds of day long growing. Did we see a car? Much earlier before our race. “Race,” a fugitive trace of what’s left. Minding ourselves in the yard. Meet what sweet worth we deem. No good deeds no going. We. A shape of shadow but not a man. A boy runs to embrace a girl. And silent in limbs they. Hold against growing shade. Nodes give green and pink beginnings. Of spring and its ritual. Brutal dull thud of day. Again going. Again.
**
Waking
Wine late night spring comes. Near the noise of outside. Engines distant. Voices follow the breeze. My green shirt sticks to skin. Damp night air close in the house. So tired. Not wanting to. Speak words that refuse to be. Taken alive and stripped. Seize the quiet moment to be nothing. Warthogs of the head. They and we. Hear their coming. To be alive. Drinking wine on grainy wood table. Blood in a toddler’s eye. Sleep. Step. Sleep. No dreams to draw us near. Membrane of day’s surface. Horrible morning waking. Observe his closed lids. The curve of lip and cheek. Blood stains his mouth. Outside night noise returns. A “turning to language.” These words. “Me.” Go in. There. “My” “love” you now. Say it, love of you knowing. The “con” in confidence. Fido a dog’s name being. Scripted on how we lay sound. Sweet surface of form dreaming. They and we without. Knowing how to move forward. The failure of category creeps in. How I wanted to be seen as what I “am.” Now a question, this “am.” Shakespherian, “to be, or…” As of now new life ends. Can it be? This ending. In sleep to weep the cells. Waking. They and we. As we are I am. Awful burden to slump. Sink with slug views of. Wine stains shirtsleeves. Wind brings traffic softly fallen. No stars.
**
return to sawbuck 1.5
**
Dale Smith lives in Austin, Texas, with the poet Hoa Nguyen and their children, Keaton and Waylon. He is the author of American Rambler, The Flood and the Garden, and My Vote Counts. Poems, essays, and reviews have appeared in Damn The Caesars, Origin, Jacket, and Best American Poetry 2002.
