Fuck Mary Oliver!
My unfinished masterpiece
with the great opening line
They’ll shout it on NPR
and ask me how
I’m so honest,
so hate and spite full,
jealous and angry,
fucking brilliant!
Fuck Mary Oliver!
Poet
Saint
I spit at her feet
marble feet of the virgin
worn hermit boots
reading glasses
dead muse
cableknit New England sweaters
foxes, bears, geese, sunflowers
I sprout welts from grass
hives from cats
burn from sun
cramp from crouching
Fuck Mary Oliver!
Poems that held me.
Tea stained, bath wet,
dog eared, yellow
Like sycamore leaves
fallen cold in a black pond
in the fading light of a clearing
on the last day of November
Fuck her!
I mean it.
Meeting deer at dawn?
Hearing grasshoppers scratching?
Sleeping in an old truck tire?
Channeling a dying fox?
I have sandwiches to create:
Mayonnaise, whole wheat,
smoked turkey, salami.
Mustard maybe.
Deadlines.
A job.
A home.
A plan.
No time to lose.
No dew spackled pretties.
No deep, no hungry.
No trouble.
No messy.
Raw and real: too beautiful for me
