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July 7, 2008

I suppose the inspirational barometer for a book is how many marks you make in it, how starred the margins grow, how underlined, folded, annotated, revisited.  And, certainly, a book that causes you to write poetry of your own, loosely or cramped, in the blank Chapter pages, is inspirational.  I’m almost finished with The Sparkling-Eyed Boy, and when I am, and I can breathe, and digest, I’ll tell you how it is good, and how it is bad, and how it has endeared itself to me, even if it won’t to you.  In the meantime, two poem-fragments I wrote in the margins very, very late last night:



First water crawls over me, loosening
my bedded home, I watch eyeless weevil larva
stirring. Under the touch of wind, I emerge
from the dark, the damp, turning wildly aside.
I lay, twisted and clutching fistfuls of red clay,
bared to the sun’s radiant face, my innards fresh
with air in a way that was never meant to be.
Bleached, opened, refused space amongst my own,
clotted, I gave up my time of quiet breathlessness
for a chance to hang, open-mouthed but uneasy
in wind and rain. My eyes washed clean, opened
to witness the blues and greens, to see the colors
of my own death in all their beauty.
We stretch deep into the earth, or sprawl,
spun under the tamped dirt for yards and yards.
Blind and unaware, feeling my way amongst
more of my own kind, braiding the dirt with time.
It is loosed or packed, warm or frosted, wet
or crumbling skin to my skin. So close I cannot
see it; I can’t see the others.

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