First Fall

From near the lake, outside the mall, the star-studded carousal stops in a glitch.

I’m beside the lake. Meditating the lake. Let’s say the real artist

is the lake. Languid on the lake surface,

irises adorn the lake’s sadness.

My sadness has nothing to do with the carousel-horses.

Two bored tourists kicking shuttlecocks before a worn-down van.

I’m placing this scene next to the lake,

so I understand the lake. Our senses labor.

Artifacts arduously preserved for this ride

spread out like weeds. Children who enjoy outdoor music.

Linda, Lucia, Robert, Dorothea—go on a picnic.

I know lots has been said about intimacy, but it’s talked about songs and
        porgies and tuning piano on a light cruiser.

Let alone the speed.

This psychic connection

with machines and applied things—I feel it.

Stars turn to the floating weeds.

We would have sauntered

and find more scenes that speak. The lake goes out. 

A sick cat from a terrace.

Going Fragile   

Noise dives into the back of his neck
like a cobra. Had he a clarinet,
he could have extended his instrument
and used it as an arm to chase the noise
away. He is alone in a theatre.
The light, ambiguous. The piece
he wants to compose needs two men
and a sack of ice. To imagine
there's a river. He will throw ice
across it, and his partner,
on the other side, will make harsh noise
out of the mixer connected to the floor
as the cubes drop, clanging.

The day of the performance. The ice
they carry from the supermarket melts
before the performance begins…
They go on stage still. For fifteen minutes,
they sit quietly. The hall is quiet.
Only footsteps of the front row audiences
who continue to stand up, move
their way back, since water
keeps dripping from the stage.
He walks to the middle.
He places the sack over his head.
He sits down and scrubs his arms
as if in a nice shower.