the season of grass growing backwards

a crude wind singing
a path uncomfortable w/its insects
the woman on the far side of the bed
my forgetfulness
the odd tube dispensing patience
a toothpaste lubricant for the unused mouth
carefully measuring words
as if being were a recipe
her angers are risable, forgivable;
mine are sins, casting me out
a deadly hunger, patient in this season
a wraith in the grass, backward in this memory
silk desires, ascent in the record
"anything"

the season shifts
days, makes barometric
adjustments —balloon acts like a freak,
handles my cares myself, creating
nothing but a quick release
from this ancient electric genius
which has proven to have no intrinsic value
not to my friends, nor even to my lover
her evaluation of me characterized as
"self pity — this is a dumb game. I don't
want to play."

"what can I do?"
"anything. anything you want."

From 1982-83, describing the early arc of my relationship with Becky Bradway. If I had been paying attention, it would always have been clear that she would keep me only as long as I had something she could use. When she began to see my talent as unmarketable, ever the realist, she made plans to move on to someone more successful. The poet laureate, as he would rather I didn't say.