I’m only a slave to nothing in particular
nothing in particular whistles calling my name
I feel bad about doing nothing in particular
but whatever it was I am only a slave
Just when I’ve made love to no one in particular
it whistles like wind through the hole in my days
The hole is the present the hole is a fistula
between the past and nowhere in particular
***
such a clear blue sky
the buildings are hatless
and might fall down
into it
over the horizon’s ledge
how do the sticks and puddles and ottomans
abide
so perfectly ?
i don’t think my life’s about anything
i see fresh asphalt
like a pothole of caviar
i see an old man taking his shadow
away to iron
passing a field of green squash
bowled over like pins
i see in colors
a funny face
i could have never practiced
making in the mirror
and all the time it was real and
it is mine
and the seamlessness of the joinery
is astounding
oh i need a
master the sky is so far
Image: Winslow Homer, The Veteran in a New Field, oil on canvas, 1865, (The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York).