Whitey Comic: “What it is-sy”




How much do the children
need to see
of the gristly crease
and the gulf beyond;

how much cold
before they wear their hats;

how close to the dead,
the dead with their hungry cheeks
turned for kisses,

being felled again and lumped
in heaps, the deep stars
humming something else—

we love their (the children’s)
wings folded against our hands;
a kiss!—

of course, but for them,
meaning for us,
walking on air with eyes closed—

a gape of rain and thunder,
drops open as love;

in the flash we look out
or meet eyes—

how safe will it make us
to know it,

to plunge into or

the darkness?

Other Ellipses

All the time in the world
has been waiting forever
for this, for the first time,
then it remembers

other ellipses,
and other ellipses
intrude, so rude . . .

You know what?  Forget it.
I spent what I meant
on membership in this
family affair.

And if reeling off names
in my sleep helps me sleep,
when I wake up, please just be

nearby. When I awake,
please remind me why
here, now,

Unless we’re meaningless.
But then what’s
with all the lights?

The fairy globes of skylines,
of nightlife commerce.
The eavesdropped wit. . . .

“Even if we’re just thought, we are,”
in the room the woman replied to Descartes.

But where were we?
Or not?

Little Bird

Always rushing,
so afraid.

Come here, little bird
with the fluttering heart

to the nest with the cove
so smooth and close

in the feathery wind
with the moon below.

Your belly will be full again,
your children warm–

and how shall you greet them
on dawns like the one

in the seed of the star
that tonight will bloom?