I once communed with the dead. Jack Spicer & I wrote a poem together to commemorate April 1, 1955 (exactly a month before I was born)
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"You only have the right to piss in the fountain If you are beautiful (April 1, 1955)" It's me at the back of a wet pink caul, sad-eyed as Jack
but full of tricks. Today
"The lights are out" And shinnying up the rusty laundry pole to build a sun,
over bay water
"Believe the birds"
I try to the topmost of sky to be crow & upend the nests.
Waters between us
"Time does not finish a poem"
Crows always slacken like that, a little, and tear for the
salmon-eyed kid
"The sounds there, offshore, faint and short"
