03.09.22
Why the dead
This woman Jean
Come after me
Distended
In their crowns
I don’t know why
The dead come
After me in
Crowds of Jeans
Proclaiming
That the god
Of death before
The door to life
Was shut
Slipped out
Into the slapping
Rain today is easter
Sunday
And I’m reading
Jean again
I swept
and am sweeping,
have slept
and am sleeping.
I heaved the head
of the mop
to the hod
and I’m heaving.
I’m sweating,
I’m wetting
the corn
of my broom.
I’m washing
the floor
in the room
where I waited
for reason.
I reasoned,
I teased
at the edges
of reason.
I found a sequence in my way idea
Where there was no idea before
And plucked it up as if it was already
Mine an interruption like a sequin
That fell off my sleeve in childhood
And through the sieve of time
Without work
I’m still
Sure work will come
It always does
Like flu
Expects to find
A lung
Or drought
The desultory
Ember
In the stove-
Lengths
And the leaves
I hope
For accident
To be bowled
Down pat
Dry sent home
Where work
Will wait
For me
Expectantly
Behind
The eaves
And wave its
Broken plank
At me