-the blonde and geo-relevance-

1.

She can't wake-up in the morning.

She waits the post-dinner shift in a restaurant 

Which bears the name of one once accused, 

But acquitted of matricide-

Patricide. But when the noon-sun springs, 

And her hand begins its quiet sweep across her hair,

That gold——

She is everything living 

As living should most clearly 

Define itself.

When questioned, she tells me my poems are vague,

And I sometimes agree. But—

She radiates blood to the vacuum-

Side of morning's brain like a deep, red- 

Shifter.

2.

It's that time of year when the cat hangs-out

At the base of the refrigerator,

Curled-up from the cold in the warmth of its motor.

That cat——

Once buried to its pink in the quick- 

Snow's drift,

Who ignored the calls of her kissing-

Sound lips—— Those lips,

That cat,

Whose awareness of life extended 

Only as far as the breath now breathed, 

Its history of life. But then——

Across the light of a noontime sun her hand 

Brushed back that gold...

And if you live in the West, in the South,

Immersed in the permanent dryness of heat—— 

In New Mexico, in Phoenix or San Diego,

You won't understand the habits of our poets,
Or our cats——

Of our killers

Or our women.

                               Fall River / 1978 / 2007