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Featured Poet: Jim McCurry
The Bus
I no longer remember the sun
that filled the garden
October 3, 1946,
the dark depot underbelly
of moving lights, people,
the man who lent my mother
his coat to keep me warm.
I remember remembering.
On Tour II-3
In a booth amid clatter of
silver
which is stainless steel, Meramac
plates, my companion is quiet,
which suits my taciturn bent
to a t. I pull out a checkstub
to jot down a summer reading
reminder: Hearn's Glimpses of
Unfamiliar Japan. Just
as I write "Unfamiliar" the hen
next door says "familiar"
to her companion. I announce,
to no one, "Soon,
someone will say '43'."
At the Sagebrush
Hospital gloves rise dripping
ice.
The patron's stare,
as you wipe her table clean,
cuts you down to size.
You smile and say
"Excuse me, Ma'am"
to the fox that has his teeth chomped down
on his tail around her neck, the one
that always looks at you like
ice
floating in
dishwater
Pink & White
Facing me
in an ordinary
Chinese restaurant in Illinois,
in a moment I cannot pretend
is timeless
even if it is
like a falling petal, pink & white
you ebb and flow
A Tree in a Reflecting Pool
it is not the moment
scraped down to the pink
undercoat
though you can see
some signs
of colour
*
a paste on
little lantern
like a pedantic
footnote
Discharged
floating
I shed my uniform like a husk
and step into the dark
doorway's
grainlike
rain
(first appeared in Star-Web Paper)
I Know You
I know you, Psyche--
for a time, you had me fooled,
but now I recognize
my sister.
I see your past
conversations.
A candle flickers.
Endless, the flame--
the night races by
just the same--
Streaks of black,
cobalt blue.
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