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Distance
For m.t. with respect to Reverdy
Tracks slice through Belgium
without me.
Nearing Paris:
communication wire,
imperfect parallels,
the same sun,
cows leaning against posts, etc.
I'm 80 miles east of Needles now,
aimed at the mountains,
thinking of thunder
and the backs of your knees;
thinking of you
unrolling your dark stockings
while Hurricane Belle
beats Long Island to death.
Mariachi music moves across the desert.
Like locusts
Spanish newscasts swarm around my ears.
The radio &
the wind;
it's the only way to stay awake.
Tracks hum alongside me,
tracks tracing the curvature,
tracks gathering the first heat.
first published in Paper Plates, Toronto
Last View of Mei Leng
I should have expected that gun fighter stance,
feet menacingly apart
and the coke bottle glasses
biting into her cheeks.
The eyes are drunken
and surrounded by a buzzing
as though
something crazy could happen
and that's when it hits me,
her feet aren't touching anything.
We're supposed to be in touch
with
something.
But there's
a good 3 inches
between her running shoes
and the comfort that gravity
usually provides.
The details start to stack up:
she's puffy,
quiet,
still. Things
she never is.
Mei Leng has hanged herself
in the shower
from a damn curtain rod.
In the old days,
these institutions
used cold rolled steel rods.
And now,
even against 3 days of her weight,
this one shows no evidence of fatigue.
The curtain, the eyes,
the mouth,
the sky
open, all open.
The body strains and swells
but the rod will not
give an inch.
first published in Hanging Loose, Brooklyn
Rick Smith
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