C. S. Carrier
her poems, her profane halo, gold rings
spilled on her laminate spine, engaging Giorgio,
who espouses taking back men named Giorgio from
Individuality, its curses, its powder that colors hope.
I was 32 & it was yesterday. Today, the 11th & I’ve seen Gillian
twice. I could’ve listened all day to her twang, sibilant
toxicology. She found layers in my panacea I hadn’t known.
Actually, I think more correctly’s what she did’s
she got me to remember them & what’s that?
The layers in the yard, all my nostrils, skull fragments, hurting myself
when sequestering myself. Outside the Jones, talking to Noah & Sara & Mike & Juliana,
soaking the wanings of a tobacco volcano, Noah all “throw some Diet Coke on it, the
stink stinks,” & me, standing there, Robert Creeley still dead, not even old, at least in seer
years, he, giver of asthmatic breathpulses & jazz vortices, trainingwheels of young
linguaschematics, like me, his, Creeley’s, eye looking down, expanding the blue, over it,
throughout it, bridging the acreage between words as things & words as engines to live by.