Solidago: to make whole

Goldenrod, the deep yellow, the color of the center of the sun,
the clean burn—I brought you some when
you were crying, because your love had left you.

She left before the sun had set, before the sky
was orange. The trees shone green, the leaves were tipped with
goldenrod, the deep yellow, the color of the center of the sun.

It was dark when I climbed the steps to your front porch,
where you were sitting with the lights turned out, while
you were crying because your love had left you.

We watched the sun rise above the houses across the street;
I sat beside you. Between us was the
goldenrod, the deep yellow. The color of the center of the sun

stained the horizon. Days later I stood beside you
as she was lowered into the ground, her coffin covered in
goldenrod, the deep yellow, the color of the center of the sun,
as you were crying, because your love had left you.

Tea Time

There will be time for all
That when there is no time at all.
When the when becomes
A useless inquiry and the
Extension of space is a completely
Different matter. The matter
Is at hand and the hand will
Spin and splay away
From its body and not feel it
But still know, or not know it and
Still feel.

Teatime will be all the time.
Bedtime will be a dream, a
Pleasant far off thing that
We used to do in those days
When we had days, and
Some days were long and dull
And some were nice—those
Were the days—though I
Wouldn’t go back if you asked
Me. The mountain is only
For climbing—who would
Descend except Christ,
Who walked down, everyone
Patting him on the back
(or they would have if they
Had hands—material hands)
He walked back up the hill
And died there—reverse
Purgatory, reverse Eden,
Reverse damnation.
Then the Father sat with
The Son at the Eternal Tea Party
And the Spirit hovered over the
Surface of the hot water,
Warming himself
Before entering
The hearts of men.

Chapter the Fourth
That Thursday week, the marriage of Mr. Plumpkins to the fair (but affected) Miss Morrisson was to take place. Of course, she was to be married from her home, which was but a hovel. As she was waiting for the cart which was to carry her and her earthly belongings to church, who should come upon her but the spiteful Ellyn Hauton.
“What,” exclaimed the latter, “are you thrown out of your house, Miss Morrisson?”
“Oh! no,” said our heroine, “I am to be married to Mr. Plumpkins.
“To my Gabriel!” ejaculated Ellyn (who henceforth must be Known to the World as Mrs. Plumpkins), “but that is surely Impossible!”
In lieu of answer, the brave Miss Morrisson fell instantly into a severe fainting fit. Fortuitously, she was caught by the romantic Chas. Gardiner, Bart. who, clumsy as he was, dropt her straight away. When he learned of her ruined wedding, he most obligingly offered to stand up and do the job himself. Thus, the minister was put to no great inconvenience, being quite used to the changing out of bridegrooms in his profession. Thus, we leave the lovely neighborhood precisely what they deserve: A life of marriage, or none at all.

Chapter the Third
In the back corner of the very room in which this palpitating scene was taking place, Mr. Plumpkins raised yet another soda cracker to his immortal lips. Miss Reede gasped and clutched her heart. In that timeless moment, she had fallen into the throes of passion for the unattainable Mr. Plumpkins. Her best friend forgotten, Miss Reede suddenly recalled that Mr. Plumpkins was upon the Point of Marriage with Miss Adrianna Morrisson! Already of a sickly constitution, Clarissa rapidly expired on the couch.
"Alas," exclaimed Mrs. Carlson, "all is working widdershins for me. I must away to a foreign land, to seek some better fortune." She straightaway parted and died a martyr to consumption in the Orient. She was not bereft of kinsfolk, however, as her father died with her.

Chapter the Second
The next evening, there was a ball at Fort Plumpkins, which belonged to Mr. Gabriel Plumpkins (who was much enamored of eating soda crackers). Present at this grand assembly was the entirety of the neighborhood. Besides the elegant Mrs. Carlson and her father, her intended and the host, the group was constituted of three other persons. First, there was the most wonderfully Beautous Miss Clarissa Reede, who was close friends with Mrs. Carlson and was then but fifteen years of age, one of the best ages. With her was her cousin, the ugly and spiteful Miss Ellyn Hauton. The final maiden of this trio was Miss Adrianna Morrisson, who had great Virtue and Talent, but was much too forward to benefit from it. After the first set of dances, Mr. Gardiner announced his intended marriage to Mrs. Carlson.
Miss Reede fainted immediately and was not caught by her spiteful cousin. Fortunately, Miss Reede fell upon an obliging sofa in a most attractive manner. Her friend rushed to her, intending to revive her, but could not succeed, The violence of her attack was made known after she failed to recover for some fifteen seconds. In this painful and suspenseful period, Mrs. Carlson felt bitter remorse enter her soul.
“Dear, darling Clarissa,” cried she, ”I will not marry Mr. Gardiner. I will not sacrifice our freindship upon the altar of marriage, It does not signify e’en how deeply my passion runs, for our friendship is one unto death. You may see that I am in earnest, for in making this appeal my new gown of ruby satin is quite ruined by the dust on which I presently kneel.”

Non-Sense; or She Loved But Left Him

Chapter the First
Aelthea Carlson was a beautiful young widow, the daughter of the famous and Rich Dr. Pym. On the way to the card party of her intimate friend, Miss Reede, who was of the most beautiful complexion, but quite susceptible to chills, Mrs. Carlson’s carriage was most unfortunately overturned. Up bounded the gallant yet clumsy Mr. Gardiner, to rescue the fair damosel from the wreckage.
“Alas! my poor, hapless muff is all besmattered with mud!” cried Mrs. Carlson, aghast.
As if to follow the example of the lovely Mrs. Carlson’s muff, Mr. Gardiner upturned suddenly and ended face downwards on the mire. A kindly spaniel lept upon him, which he, shaking off as it were merely a dried leaf of an inferior kind of tree, ignored, his large and luminous eyes being wholly captivated by the dazzling person of Mrs. Carlson. “Good morrow, fair damosel. I have not, till this day, enjoyed the pleasure of your acquaintance, nor have I yet the knowledge of your surname, nor Christian name, nor middle name, but, seeing the perfection of your style of dress, the elegant shaping of your chin, the dulcet tones of your shouting at the muff, and the bewitching brightness of your eyes, I am smitten, as by a thunderclap, with a love so overpowering that all my senses reel. In short, I must, without further delay, ask that you marry me!”
“Although I do not esteem you, nor admire your character, nor find attraction in your face or manner, yet I can honestly say that I think better of you than I have of any other man, and will gladly consent to be your wife!”

Nog

At night, when all the house is dark,
And crickets in the bushes have begun to play,
And all the inhabitants are tucked in their beds—
That is when Nog begins his day.

He sure to hang cobwebs in each nook and cranny,
And Nog helps the ivy to creep down the brick wall.
He’s sprinkled the dust on each shelf and table.
And dirtying the dishes is no trouble at all.

Sometimes you’ll hear him creak through the hall,
But remember, that is no cause for distress.
For of course it is Nog, ensuring each thing in the space
Remains out of place, in pure and wonderful, perfect mess.

Tuesdays in a Tall Building

Of all the apartments on the block, his is the oldest building—
The single room smells like agèd fish.
When I arrive, he’s eating soup
While reading yesterday’s paper—
I didn’t think he was much of a reader,
But there he is, in that shaft of sunlight.

He tells me that the article is about how all the fish
In the bay are toxic and the fish market’s in the soup.
One of the major fish companies shut down the building
Where they gut and package them—Sunlight
Fish I think it was called. He said that’s what the paper
Said, and I didn’t bother to check; I’m no reader.

I asked what kind of soup
He was eating, and he said it was made from sunlight,
But as I walked into the kitchenette I saw the paper
Wrapper, ripped from the can, read Cream of Corn. The reader
At the psychic place had warned me about this: fish,
Creamed corn, and Tuesdays in a tall building.

I Was Reading Theory

The lava of the imagination
Has hardened into lava rocks
And the city of the mind is
Now as sterile as Pompeii.

Tourists come to ogle at
The centuries old sufferings.
Children carry away rocks
When no one is looking.

One of them took the
Rock in which was
Imbedded my right hand
And I can no longer write.