I wanted for a reader to kidnap me.
Maybe after hearing a texture, or seeing
a revolving tone, developing an obsession,
then an address and a name,
then a flight. At evening,
under ochre light, I check behind me
to see it isn't true. No Kidnapper Yet.
I itemize what implements
they would want to pack. Rope,
mask, weapon. Mask, rope. Knife? Ring?
Still so serene out here among brickwork
and little lakes. Now I dream a work of art,
well-wrought, blasting apart
the bricks and the little fishes too.
These work themselves into
little dreams of nuclear holocaust
little passing sensations of fear.
Desperately I wished for my work
to put me in harm's way,
or worse yet, for a poem to
tie me down wholly, to haunt a traveled place,
be committed like war.
Do you know how hard it is to be vulnerable
when writing a poem? I've tried. My lover
is unimpressed by my fantasy.
I've tried but I cannot make myself true. Here are
things I remember and things I don't;
Where do you find yourself
with a knife
at my temple?
I wrote this poem as I was on a small walk
and came upon an animal rescue, cradled in the park,
there was a birdsong deep inside,
like thwip thwip yessirreee!
and imagine the little broken birds, the beards on the goats,
and close to its chest, a fence about it,
its sign, No Access. No Access. Rope, mask,
gun to shake down poetic birds, ring for goat to wear or eat.
Even these years later I know so little about you and your eyes;
how I want for a fence
to itself climb.