Up from bloody tidal bottoms pluck
the babe precise at four
o'clock, from warmth of womb to cold
of steel and plastic bassinet with hands
sinewed, replete with passion
satisfied. Your wailing plays

a game upon the face of her four
winds, the tiles standing cold
on marble slab beneath her hands.
Ivory matchstick dragon, bamboo passion
fruited red in Chinese, plays
the sparrow piece with spirit, pluck

the mark of blood on Wah Mee floors. Cold
congealed grasping hands
in nature's flood. The passion
frozen photographed page one, it plays
in dream of muddy color. Pluck
or courage? Two hands become four

corners where your curving hands
caress and stoke the passion
in a window silhouette which plays
for time. At dusk, you pluck
a feather from the pillow, tie your four-
in-hand and leave her cold,

alone, consumed by passion
to ebony ashes, ivory keys. She plays
an aimless haunting tune after you pluck
her heartstrings, bared and scattered four
directions. She travels north to cold
and south to warm. The east-west hands

of bridge, those cards her lover plays
to win the game, which pluck
victory from the bowels of defeat. With four
part harmony she sings the cold
clear rhythms of her soul and hands
the deck away. She's spent her passion.

Pluck four cold hands. Passion plays.

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BROADWAY CRUISING

A luminescent pearl of a sun
tugs at purple bruised clouds stolen
from an oyster. Driving down
Broadway, evening smells like stale

crackers sliding across my eyes
in a crumbly caress. The shadows
of a thousand stars burn my eyes. I travel
inward outward rushing speeding

to the turn. Your contemporary,
man, is a dog who growls at sunset,
never stops to grab the words
but grabs my breast and suckles deeply.

Salty silken blouses soaked with milky
shellfish juices, buttered bread, and lobster
lemon essence where you hit me.
I've been used, discarded, thrown aside.

And because the world is round
I can't throw things away for they
come back like broken vinyl records
unrecycled, unrepentent, undenied.

A monotone of sound colors that sky
like purple bruises ring my eyes
covered by hands that cannot hold
the sun. It's luminous and stolen

from an oyster birthing pearls
of wisdom. The sky's a deep, deep
painful blue tinged red around the edges
bleeding and dripping over the side of

the world. Blood leaves my cheek
to pool on jagged edge of marble
table mingling with buttery juice
and salt of tears cruising Broadway.

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OK HOTEL, PIONEER SQUARE, SPRING 1988

my city is a patchwork quilt laid
down between two muddy shores
random pieces stitched side to

side loosely in brilliant jewel
tones of silk and satin interspersed
with well-worn calico and

stained flour sacking stripes
eye gaze through the dusty panes
of a broken window eye see

myself reflected here a super
imposition on the fabric of these
lives which pulse around me

never quite connecting
with the raveled thread eye burn
to wrap myself in my city's

warmth hear the music in its velvet
shape slide bare feet on
cold brick cobbles collect

clay when tides run out the vision
obscured by gale
of breeze moving curtains

veil my city's I

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ROTHENBURG AT SLAUGHTER

Squeezing through the wall gate
of Rothenburg, I park my '59
Volkswagen in front of Gasthaus
Stern. I peer out bug-eyed windows
at cobbled streets and shops with windowboxes

overgrown in rich abandon. Chunky peasant
women in dark, drab homespun dresses
woolen stockings scraped together
above thick-soled shoes lumbering from shop
to shop. They buy their lumpy loaves
of fresh-baked grainy bread and wheels
of smooth strong-scented cheese. I check

my watch bought in Geneva on a peace mission
stolen back while he slept uncaring with the daughter
of a friend. I have time to raid the bakery
for blueberry kuchen and coffee, hot,
strong and thick with cream. I count off

paces east to west and north to south, homing
on the center of the square. The spot is marked
but ritual demands recount.

I sit on cobbles worn smooth and hot through
centuries of high noon and rain. The dance
begins with gargantuan music box notes. Gentlemen
bow and ladies curtsy. Joints creak
in stiff-legged steps becoming fluid. Doll
characters, pristine aprons and lederhosen

crackle in the sun and shadow, rise
to life. Whirling. Stepping.
Kicking. Smiles between the apple
cheeks. Sparkles in glass sapphire
eyes. They stop. I climb the dank
cold steps of the wall where blood
of ancient Gothic warriors and Jews drips

down the battlements in dry rivers
beneath my toes. At the parapet I grab
a bow, and arrows straight and true.

I wait the hour to shoot the clock
and stop the dance. At dawn on Mondays
the trailer is hitched to the Mercedes so the pigs
can go to slaughter. We rise to a cacaphony
of oinks and curses and take our cream
and coffee cross-legged on the balcony
above. We watch the creeping fingers of the sun

sneak up the cobbled street to caress
those squeally hamsteak butts and prod them
up the chute. Barefoot in silk nightgowns
we inhale coffee, fresh-baked bread, manure,
diesel. The squealing load is hauled

to Rothenburg. A silent tear caught in sunlight
slips like a liquid diamond down my baby
daughter's cheek. She knows too much.

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SAINT NAMES

I turn from faded
pages to see dried rosebuds bleed
color on the skin of my left
hand. In Connemara, we

dance down dirt
track roads toward church and
services for fallen comrades. Michael,
where did you go? I look,

find only a rosary
and Liam, whom I love. And lost,
I shout
curses at a God who snatches

small fortune in Her
wisdom and gives back bloodied
ground amid the green. Aborted
fetuses cry.

I name them all from saint
names and imaginary
things. They rest in peace now
beside Gran Johanna in silk

baptismal dress or plastic bag. I mourn
the living who go on. We fight
battles four scores long here
in America.

It's an element of soul.

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THE PLANE, THE PLANE

Over O'Hare a tire fell from a 737 bound for New York.

The tire travelled across three rental car lots smashing the side of a Mercury
Sable, folding it in half. The guy who saw the whole thing happen didn't seem as
afraid as one of the women seated inside the plane. I wondered about this.

If I was the guy on the ground, I would have fallen over dead just seeing an
object three times my size falling, bouncing right toward me. I got scared
the time a tire came off a Porsche passing on the right on I-5 in a snowstorm.
It was a small tire.

It bounced.

We skidded in a 360-degree circle and halfway round again. When we stopped
and looked up from heads between our knees-except John who was driving,
of course-there was a fully-loaded semi coming toward us in our lane.
John gunned the engine and pulled across three lanes of traffic.

The Porsche was on the shoulder listing starboard aft,
the lady driver shaken.
She'd been test driving the Porsche for about fifteen minutes.

I don't think she bought the car.

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TOMMY IN PIONEER SQUARE

Echoing footsteps pounding rhythms
Walking concrete jungles
Searching haunting passed

Touching street alcoholic eyes
Looking away looking back
Recognition dawns

Fingertips caress reflections
On screens of dreams
Through jail glass

Storefront mirror faces
Chasing after running faster
Screaming breathing

Desperation reaching
Grasping evaporating image
The past was never real

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HIGHWAYS - THEN AND NOW

Driving down highways torrential rains pouring
slapping wipers push the tears from my eyes
and I watch for every white truck
a mad chase across my state of confusion
find you in Sumas a quarter mile from the border
pumping gas
and looking sad I could not have you go away crying
and loving me so much
I try to make you come back to me away
from her
I make a sacrifice and let you go
brave with my smiles and you ask if you are a prize
and I say yes
because you are all the lotteries and lucky stars
I ever wished on and love has no pride
when we make our choices

I explain to your daughter how this love we found
is real and the lies her mother weaves
are fairy tales made up by a sick woman
who made her choices years ago
she says you could never love a woman like me
but I know she speaks from the ignorance of youth
so I will remember you
pumping gas and smiling at me for being so silly
and sitting at a table
not believing what you see
but loving me just the same