He the poet of the lower case keeps coming and going. “In just” has just cumin with a lame goat (not duck) balloon man. Like in the ads new stocks are just in. The balloons are high up to the spring.
Here in our basement there are comings and goings. Basement girls come out for the ice cream man , who pulls out his cones from the basement of his trolley where the cones were sleeping . Our girl tongues come out from their mouths where they were sleeping. It is such a fine spring to watch the comings and goings of girl tongues softly over ice cream cones.
(Reference to e.e.cumins poem “In Just”)
In words it is my deal in silence, an agreement with electric fan,a stillness breathing night air.
Sixty six years of dad’s still face was as if it was an electric fan whirring in a room’s midnight.
Wipe the dust off the fan’s face to experience death’s stillness ,still a running proxy for away.
We see our poetry’s death in a recess, as a little black bird on our clothesline that has come away from dark night.
We have a little black bird’s lonely night on a clothesline perched with our single sock, the other a wet body dropped to floor.
The body thinks death all its life away from sensual things and grapes and women and poems and rainbows. When body drops body loses nothing.
( Referring to From Mirror Image by Louise Gluck)
Here I am waiting in the eye , its pupil in tears and an overflowing. Vasan eye care will now check my iris and the uvii. I am not weeping. Am I sweet in my body?
Down in the pit of my stomach is the fear of turning a blind poet. Another Borges who makes a library of books behind his eyelids.Neatly stacked by centuries, ever since Sophocles wrote Oedipus and Milton his Paradise Lost .