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from Blue Dark

Deborah Landau
the moon might rise and it might not
and if it brings a ghost light we will read beneath it

and if it returns to earth
we will listen for its phrases

and if I'm alone at the bedside table
I will have a ghost book to refer to

and when I lie back I'll see its imprint 
beneath my blood-red lids:

not lettered ink 
but the clean page

not sugar 
but the empty bowl

not flowers 
but the dirt 



*


blame the egg blame the fractured stones 
at the bottom of the mind

blame his darkblue glare and craggy mug
the bulky king of trudge and stein

how I love a masculine in my parlor
his grizzly shout and weight one hundred drums

in this everywhere of blunt and soft sinking
I am the heavy hollow snared

the days are spring the days are summer
the days are nothing and not dead yet


*


worry the river over its banks
the train into flames

worry the black rain into the city
the troops into times square

worry the windows cracked acidblack
and the children feverblistered

worry never another summer
never again to live here gentle
with the other inhabitants

then leave too quickly 
leave the pills and band-aids
the bathroom scale the Christmas lights the dog

go walking on our legs
dense and bare and useless

worry our throats and lungs
into taking the air

leave books on the shelves
leave keys dustpan 

telephones don't work where you were
in the chaos


*


and I couldn't bear it
the children nearing the place
where the waves wet the shore

vaporous force
rising imperceptibly behind

we were talking about circumstance
horizon-gates swinging open
beneath the cherry blooms

wave rising in the background
impalpable and final
a girl in a white dress       barefoot

wasn't I right to ask her to move in from the shore


*


this is the last usable hour

bird lured
through the window

a little sweet fruit

I could die here
and the hearsedriver
would take me out of this city

I'd say my name to him 
as we crossed the Triboro

I'd say it softly         the way he likes it

it would be the last time
I'd introduce myself that way

Copyright © 2011 by Deborah Landau. Reprinted from The Last Usable Hour with the permission of Copper Canyon Press.

Copyright © 2011 by Deborah Landau. Reprinted from The Last Usable Hour with the permission of Copper Canyon Press.

Deborah Landau

by this poet

poem

At night, down the hall into the bedroom we go.
In the morning we enter the kitchen.
Places, please. On like this,

without alarm. I am the talker and taker
he is the giver and the bedroom man.
We are out of order but not broken.

He says, let's make this one short.
She