Frank Parker
w i l d w i t h s p r i n g
A lettuce field
a deep ravine
holes caves shacks
pieces of wood scrapsthe edge of a hole
an old man’s hairMy own father
asking his questions,
making me shake. His life in a box.·
through street light pine-
needles O
moon bruised cloudselectric skyline
blue streets
up and down
Spaghetti Hillsea lions bark
from the Coast Guard
pier below·
words go out
I hear my heart
a red crown
in a dark sea
pages
of morning white
fingers cup
the wind all night·
years
of myselfthere
another dayoutside
my grasp·
a flute the moon a tiny heart
sleepless music on the water
all there is everywhere at once
and anywhere you point points back
to you at the speed of light
name this thing a separate being
in a crisis of perception
who is whose reflection·
the nightingale’s quiet
sunrise a riot
high and low tide
the moon’s second sight
a star to me
·
the world begins
in my mouththe fierce clear light
between a caterpillar and a cloud
Copyright 2000, Frank Parker. All rights reserved.
