Sundry Sunday

Ezra Pound once said, or wrote, that nonsense is the closet thing we have to myth. i sometimes wonder if that’s true, that what we mistake for chaos has order and structure, the structure of narrative. If we could only straighten it all out we would understand the cosmos.

 

 

 

Rag & Bone

The news is on upstairs and the dogs

Are circling around with their cloth rings

Bone shards and parts of spent toys

Down here, the keyboard and the light

Of the monitor are my sentinels

My rag, my bone, my shuffle and bark

 

Seven Interludes for small instruments

A boat came one

Winter through the sparkling drifts

Of whiskey and northern lights

Whistled down like pigeons for feed

Wave upon wave

My brother and me lay with much glee

Rowing the boat ashore

Only to find us gone — the night too cold