Monday, April 8, 2013

Another Typical James Tate Poem

It's the word "chasteness" that the Earth hates so much.
That sound, for instance, is not a wheezing fridge
but a cricket accompanying dripping water.
Good thing I didn't kill it!

The cool winds are whipping the spring into shape.
Feeling at home is only a matter of getting the knobs right
in my Mansard-slate room at the top of this lit toy-train set
with names like Quotient of Pain (bread), Pinocchio's Pizza
and The Connecticut Muffin far, far below.

I am annoyed by the sound of my own breathing,
thinking it's another voice vying for attention
now that I'm the slattern catholic about incoming noises
be they door-handle gears, or geese cheering base-hits,
or the way the treetops moan each day at sunset.
I wish that you were here sometimes
to make me feel insane again, with your Chinese water
treatments and your entrances as sweeping
as they are traumatic to doors. A pitch-perfect prisoner thinks
these pirate broadcasts are catastrophies
to endure vicariously, when each and every semi-hemi-quaver
not approved by the FCC
is a reminder to be free...

like the postcard on the fridge from Mount Estes
reminds me of the grocery list, the door jambs, slippers, batteries
I need to start my new life
that has no past or future.

I look for clues in the entrails in garbage cans
and out comes my new friend the cricket
with what looks like a key to the moon.