by Joanna Penn Cooper and Todd Colby
Or maybe it's D. W. Winnicott we love.
Kindly squints and black ties make us strangely happy,
if we ever have been happy, which probably we were in childhood
when we learned to tells lies and walk around with our faces.
"Big whoop" was all we could muster. Our muscles bent
over thick bones. We were all forecast and goldenrod, mobile as dice,
really nothing more than fungal, but feisty and robust and always
nipping at the bus standing on the bridge fat and skinny
This was life. This was being alive, a cloud of knowing
not-knowing. A cloud of counting the barks of a chained
dog for messages. Bark twice if you hear me speaking
to you in my head. Bark! Bark! Moderate swing tempo.
Water is good for the lungs. If you hear me singing it could be
someone asking you to come home or twist into a new shape.
The circumstances are clear though the results are not always available.
I am steady as a gutter. I am lifted and profane. I lack only lack.
By "someone" I mean all the poets everywhere, I mean friends
on screened-in porches, sparklers in their faces, caught
in complex thinking of their own. I'm steady at my swinging table.
I'll draw it for you. Listen.
By "lifting" my head I can see what people are doing to me. There are
windswept fields with dried matter blowing everywhere. You are there.
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