By Dusty Neu.
d on the patio
people look out their windows running fast past wet brick
we know hes seen sprawling green field golden hill seen some
carburetors radiators we know hes seen some
things written on the wall above his head what is a
vanishing point horizon hes left
to crawl creep at a crawl fixed to rails
moving at a crawl hes crawling we
all saw this what does he remember
i hadnt eaten a pear until i was
nearly grown hadnt eaten sunflower seeds
until after id grown dan taught me how told
me you can crush them in your hand or in your
mouth a type of thing to try to remember
as in the days of lead cicadas and haze
on the street on which wed grewn
we were walking we could have
been in november instead of
june i could have been
a handsome doctor instead of
depends
sweating myself waterlogged i
could have been wheat noodle
lexicon or sweetened something
written on your hand
rain in late summer with the prattling sampietrini or i sent my letter &
my letter was answered
ive taken to being imagined
though idealized in thought alone
or the thought alone the muscle
it took to cart or carry your
grief a harrier kind of
chin a much less steady hand
greenery very dark wood
still i mention uneven tans i
mention dry brush & deadfall
fell trees is what i would have
written under frayed curtains
lamplight & mumbling wind
rather than
why do you do where you have done
truong in his living room
i was too old to be there
i was too old for ploughshares
too old for billow steam
old for petals an emmet pedal wagons
i was wagons
panel wagons stopped at the foot of the pond
i was still panel wagons steeped in ponds
older than cayenne than paprika
thicker than ploughshare
thicker than eggshells thicker than she drops
an egg it was morning it was wet out
it was hazy even indoors it was eggs dropped
but thicker than that
older than that
viale europa viale america
could ben have seen from inside the bin
could ben have seen before him after
him could have been seen on a bus passing
the fountain in piazzale delle nazioni unite
passing the fountain a
fountain that is dried hole passing a dried
concrete passing by in the pool as
a boy i broke off a nail when i slipped on a
step would have been could be in
the pool half a toe had half a toe could have
been in the middle in the middle
around the middle of a vast expanse of
white concrete with buildings as giant
curved slabs in the heat with a plastic bag
blowing down the street
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dusty Neu is an American poet originally from California’s rural central valley. Every summer of his childhood was spent at the county fairgrounds chasing steers down the midway or awkwardly walking pigs round the ring in a green cap and tie. His work has appeared in Transfer and Pear Noir!. He currently lives and works in Rome.
