This next group of poems is a group
of four poems called "The Poet."
And they have no titles, they're just numbered 1 through 4.
They said go, rise each day with her,
become the reliable dough a family needs.
I wouldn't.
I walked away from the kitchen, the store
she was building in her breast.
And everything grows dim, like the little stone brought home
from the shore.
What will I bring if I come to your house?
A cold wind at the door.
Bad dreams to your spouse.
There isn't a tree in your backyard.
The lawns are plastic.
The chairs are too hard.
No, I wouldn't talk.
I'd be full of spite, and I'd strike my head
like a match that won't light.
Woman, mirror of all my sides, I pass through you to the window.
When I lay my hand on the grass, forgive me if I call the Earth
my child.
Always poor, he knows the crickets will leave him
small jars of money.
He waits.
[PLANE FLYING OVERHEAD]
I don't-- [LAUGHS]
Always poor, he knows the crickets will leave him
small jars of money.
He waits.
He admires a weed.
His dreams are addressed.
At night by his desk, he becomes a flower.
Children are bees in his arms.
A little pain making honey.