Collected cats perch on separated shelves,
some live. Smooth-in porcelain
--perfection carved in wood or stone,
they're shape voluptuous. Precise

some live smooth in porcelain
of radical design, balanced. On edge
there-shape voluptuous, precise
--one grows a coat of herbs, on clay

of radical design. Balanced on edge,
a pear mirror imaged in pink,
one grows. A coat of herbs on clay
creeps out from lids of wooden boxes

--a pair-mirror imaged in pink
crude terra cotta, a Mexican cat painted green
creeps out. From lids of wooden boxes
kittens step gingerly, detached from

crude terra. Cotta, a Mexican cat, painted. Green
collected cats perch. On separated shelves,
kittens step. Gingerly detached-from
perfection carved-in wood or stone.

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MENTAL DENTISTRY

Writing poems
pains like pulling teeth.
Worrying calcium pearls
with tongue or tip of finger,
tasting tiny specks of blood
before instruments of torture
are employed.
Cheap strings or stainless steel
clamps grasp and yank,
pulling passion to the page.

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HEADLINES FROM THE FOOD SECTION

Sweets
Mail-order brownies advance to fax
A loving touch with mousse
all right, but chocolate it is not
Love and food united, Some coffee
chocolate a sweet touch
White, Espresso Truffles delivering
with that message Homemade
Mustaches Chocolate-Dipped
Delights but not in film about milk
There's No Wrong Way To Eat, chocolate?
As Long As You Eat Right.

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NINE

Summer drips down my chin
with a shocked slow spreading grin
melting until all that remains
is the stick, red tongue, cold pains
and a memory of perfect flavor
on a sunny day. Porch boards squeaked
rusty chains on swingsets creaked
and the flowers all smelled like cherry popsicle
dripping on my chin. Let me be a child still.

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THE MACHINE

once again we are happy to announce we have reinstalled
the machinery of spring which will begin producing
the highly popular days of sunlight animating
birds and insects to caper in our gardens
and parks and we hope that unlike
its predecessor this unit will
not overheat into summer
then bog down as fuses
blow out spewing
snow until it
stops cold

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WAKE THE POEM...THE POET SLEEPS

there are no 2 a.m. poems
poetry's question doesn't settle down
like a fast flurry of blankets and flying feet
or turn off like a lamp
poetry made in darkness ends up in noon
sooner or later stumbling squinting
hiding its face growling at the sun
needing to be washed brushed
trimmed polished buttoned up laced
only then can you send it off
to the world properly attired
knowing enough of daytime
to handle business go to lunch
chase buses in the rain
shake hands and smile
take walks endure be examined
all the time
and explode
for being
never send a poem straight from bed
and onto the freeway or the bus
moonlight and a scrap of paper
will never get it through the day

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