Poem Notes


This is what you got me up for? Cats-
in-the-backyard bump & grind? Hurrah for light
on cats and motion, drowsy thoughts. Hurrah          
for your sister Harriet who keeps on

dumping boys like she was born to lose them.
Hurrah for my thoughts of her as she mists
the winter defrost glass on the slow drive
back from another relationship’s dull

bomb and bottom-out. Wake me when it’s really
morning, not this half-hearted pre-tender
pre-dawn light, not this dry ice mist, not this
scent of mint that’s all over everything                         

like a sauce or like a net of thoughts
and thoroughfares, not this old bone Harriet
dream of leaving, not this painful-looking
cat sex mess, not this essayistic
voyeuristic watching out the window
for Icarus to wing-beat out this fog
and call it morning, call it passing glance.