ACCOUNT OF MY DAYS

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  keyword(s) in poems:

Sequence: 5

untitled
some words last longer...


THEORETICAL
just read the words...


AN ACCOUNT
it wasn't as if any...


THE NIGHT OF THE BIG STORM
the neighbor boy with candles...


untitled
day that hesitates...


9/4/94
morning the flowers...


LUCK
of birds to have wings...


MEMORY
noon the infinite...


9/1/94
eulogy strains those heads...


HOW TO
ceremonies must be long...


A MAN OF WAR
rises through the air...


TALE
midnight pours out his heart...


TITLE NO TITLE
if your hand...


I'LL TRY AGAIN
it chases me...


24 HOURS
night as a cistern...


NOTICING
how to be literal as a last gasp...


LOOKOUT
looking out from a window in the treetops...


RETURN
in someone's house or in a barn...


MY WALK
being secret and smart...


ONGOING
that rush rush...


MONEY WORRIES
dreaming of an owl...


MABLE MCKIBBEN RENSBERGER
grandmother of underground places...


untitled
memory bled...


PAGE TORN FROM THE BOOK OF MEMORY
where it is flat the wind...


APOSTROHE
moon bone bright I...


untitled
for luck a fire...


EXAMPLES
slipped on the carpet at the turn of the stairs...


GIVE ME JUST A MINUTE
The room blurs. I can't think....


TELLING ABOUT
argument with my shadow...


DOCTORS MISUNDERSTAND
blue circles approaching my eyes...


HERE'S AN IDEA
what about...


COLDER WIND
everything is...


BEING TOLD GOODBYE
I am in the limited area...


MY LETTERS
continuator of hieroglyphs...


HELP ME
this poetry has grown too heavy...


RETURN THE FAVOR
doc buzzard in your cart...


SURVEYOR'S DREAM
to keep all the directions...


SEEN FROM A DISTANCE
the poems he has forgotten...


TRAVEL
atlas of devastation...


WE SING
day...


AS I SLEEP
I am blind stumbling...


PRACTICE WITH MY EYES
a hero of waiting...


WORDS I CANNOT UNDERSTAND
bad traffic on the way to...


CHANGE IN THE WEATHER
the wailing stops...


WHAT WILL I WRITE ON THE LAST PAGE
blank paper stares at me...

Listen!


THE UNLOVED BELOVED


"The Unloved Beloved" is written by the crazy son of the man
who teaches the masculine arts in the back of his hardware
store.  Everybody takes his classes, for he never shames his
students for their difficulties. He even forgives the one
who stole a Winchester propped against a wall in the rain
with a "please don't steal me" sign on it.  He needs help.
His fishing lines are tangled, and he wants reassurance about
his son, who is supposed to be good at what he does, though
his father does not understand.  What the man seeks from the
thief is confirmation that his son does well, that he is famous,
which is the kind of information only a thief would have.  The
man and the thief walk downstairs together, not where the police
can see them but behind all the activity in the store and mer-
cifully far away from the other students.  "He takes up a lot
of space," the thief says. "I mean, more than just his own."
He wants the man to be pleased, but he has never understood
such men, and he fears his comment will be taken poorly, so the
thief turns to the man and smiles and tries to make a joke of it.
He must not piss off the one man who could explain him to himself
in such a way that he could see he is not a thief, that what he's
done is entirely acceptable to the teacher of masculine arts.