| I say I’m thinking of a book |
She tells me where to turn. |
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| on lost practices to places. |
There’s a space, she says, |
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| She offers or a poem about |
expecting me to pull into it |
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| true and correct directions, |
and park, and when I don’t, |
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| and tells me to hang a right |
she hums a bit vexatiously |
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| at the light that turns green. |
at our dual needs to control. |
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| The real question is how to |
We’re in the car a long time |
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| enter a poem without hurt, |
to and from, back and forth. |
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| and once in, to sweep clean |
She prefers driving modus, |
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| the wrecked words of glass |
handling the stick so softly, |
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| littering from here to there |
not to foreshadow distance |
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| the streets of conversation. |
the clutch to engage slowly. |
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| We unload the grocery bags. |
The winds tipped over a pot. |
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| She holds the milk and wine. |
A couple of chairs blew over. |
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| There are flowers for a vase. |
The clocks tell the electrical. |
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| The car off cackles and cools. |
I map a plan from the guitar |
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| The house is an ancient map |
to the kitchen, avoiding trills, |
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| in a bottle tossed must ocean. |
my socks stilled in tambour. |
The Coming of the Toads 