Frank Davey
For Helen
Holding to your way, I discovered
it wasn’t.
Lesson: don’t read maps, don’t even
ask directions
Everything they tell you has been copied,
they want you to buy
the new model. Forget
your diet plan, stop watching
American Bandstand
Rehearsing your steps before the hall mirror.
Surrealism is
Applying one’s ass to the seat of a chair.
Ten poems a day. That was after
I stop coughing up words and had to
roll my own.
A fear of silence.
When there are no goals scored
does no one cheer?
What if surrealism is a serious business?
Painting blue leaves on black velvet.
All these words, tax
deductible.
The Color
The day I thought the snow was blue
was like the day I thought
Bob Creeley was a friend. Colors
are not things, not qualities I could ever
make sense of. Depressed. Literally,
pushed down, blue, and that
the color of the ink of every poem when I write it.
And the snow on this window ledge
is white. On the sidewalk, brown. Why must
the snow be white, or brown. Why not
orange snow or red snow,
purple or blue? But
from November to April
it is white and brown,
from November to April, and so
I say to me, to you
God save us that our poems
be not one color, and not only
two.
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