Percolation
 
 

The new music
had to be loud enough
to be heard
over the engines
of big finned Chevrolets.
The new music
had to hang
in the track lit style
among notices
of asbestos abatement.
You bring
robes of coldness with you into the room.
You bring
a beach of clouds unevenly into a mirror
where there was a window.
I mouseladder the clouds, string
a necklace of paper clips, and sit
on the edge of your heart waiting for release.

Leaving for work may console me, may allow distraction to percolate
a flood of associations, but fruit in the morning and the break
of day at night can not emerge as true discipline.
There are words.  There is the world.  Sometimes they meet.

She stops in the middle of the ballet and looks
at the piano.  She stops in the middle of the ballet and turns
a different color.
Haystacks and ice at dawn fool the thief.
A seated monk in white reads on the sea wall.
He fishes in his ventilated pocket.
The new music's lineage has nothing to do
With the line that follows this one.
The new music's lineage has nothing to do.
 
 

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