He sees the lengthy stalks of grass
And as she sprang through them,
all of a sudden, strangely penetrable,
He takes note:
The way they undulate their way
Up, into, around, through her loose licking flicking
(a smudged cream, frayed hems, sleeves floppy)
Their fluidity, freedom, their right of passage.
He imagines parting her legs
To be as easy, effortless, and unthreatening
as opening a tin can.
To be easy, effortless and unthreatening
as spreading a thin cotton table cloth.
Instead of gulping chicken noodle soup,
And instead of having all four corners draped,
He’ll nick himself on the searing metal,
His arms don’t reach wide enough;
Legs can jam, you know.
He’s just a J.A. in some ways,
Imagining tin cans, tablecloths, and field grass.
Oh the list can go on:
The push of an elevator button
A breast stroke through fluorescent waters
Slipping into a cashmere button-up
Putting a quarter into a jelly bean dispenser
And crank crank cranking a handful free
Slipping a CD into a car’s CD slot, pushing through a revolving door
Slipping pushing cranking
The stocks of barley sway
With the pendulum of his imagination,
you could do this, you could do that,
They keep him in flux.
but only within the regular tempo
Be able [?]
People, men, whoever, dig
and pick around
At the bottom of a burnt-over pot of fondue,
Hoping they’ll be the one to find
the last wholesome
the last juicy
Before the remains have been deemed scraps,
Before the taste wears off,
or starts to leave a threatening,
Like a dandelion’s stain under your
In disarray, unsuspecting [as usual].
The soil starts to erode,
Ground slips sloshes sinks.
Turned corn beef blue in cold alarm,
He jolts; flowers and barley dribble down.
He backs away; roots fly up.
[He looks. She sees.]
He blinks; she is cranked.
Up. Into. Around. Through.
In his mind
[He does] Nothing.