I think all poems
come from caves
(murmur)
& poems pop from
their pods in the half

light, the quarter light,
the whole light
(murmur)
my feet are loose
in their stitches

oh antsy sullen
trampled apple
i think all poems come
with their own arrows,
marrow
murmuring in
the bones
(murmur)
i think that i
am exploding in
the night, sullen,
moon in its
coyote hole

but oh, the sun is alive
with yes, talking to us
as we cross the broken
place of the relation
ship
(murmur)
i want the red
i want the no
(murmur)
who is singing?/


[this from poetry workshop just led tonight,
in which we scrawled, tore, wrote, drew & later
deciphered the side-parts of brokendown brown paper
bags; then orchestrated poems from them
in the half-light]