Michael Loughran
Stars wheel, easy and unprivate,
wind does itself into the door lock,
clouds relieve themselves into the mud.
Time sits rockly, a picture of time,
airÕs loose equation. Against it
I rehearse the new unsleep:
the owl I half dream
disarranges the sky
with an eye motion
I invent. IÕll tell everything,
he says,
if youÕll unstuck me.
A boy sings
on the old factory steps.
It is exactly noon,
I am wearing my silent blue suit,
seeking you among these
various reappearing slow walkers.
Their gazes fix, perhaps, on some
image worth fixing on, say:
white rain falling on a harp.
I seek your low
pleasure note, your leg tremolo,
your sensory discombobulations.
The boy sings.
I practice my new walk
and he stares dreamily into
the noisy, horrible forest.
Part of a wave eats part of a wave
so four people write seven poems
each avoiding a wave
as a theme. Again and again in the sun
they glimmer. Gentlemen says to lady:
thereÕs a secret pleasure just beneath the
break.