It's contraption that's over the chair here.
It's a stool I used to get in the bed.
And once before-- can you hear me in the back?
Once before, it came in handy for something strange,
I was up in the Adirondacks.
Having to get down to New York City in a one engine plane
and got into the plane, and the first thing I found out
was the seat wouldn't stay up.
So it didn't look like a very promising flight.
So I finally cooked up the idea of using this stool
to prop it up.
And it was a terrible flight, but, I, without this footstool,
I don't think it would happen.
Can I have some water?
I'd like to start off with two or three older poems.
Most of what I'll be reading tonight
is quite recent, written during the last year or so.
But I'll start with two or three of the older ones.
The first is called "January as a Lost River."
To press your ear, up to a stone,
then here it's home, shattered hundreds
of lights in the cottonwoods.
The leaves like my own thoughts straining to free themselves.
The leaves do anything the wind wants.
The season's trash struggling to distinguish myself
from its damp, undergrowth of dreams, the half truths, we
wrestle and sleep.
And you, put your heart in your hands holding it up to your ear
afraid it will stop aching.
This desert of yours, no one told me
I'd have to bring my oasis.