"Full of incandescent
imagery, ZOOP is a delight!"
--The Boston Review
is a riveting book"
Careful of the book, you'll offend it. You think the lake empty,
suddenly thirty ducks arrive in the club car, twenty valorous sheep, a
bough on stilts. At six in the evening, four in the morning, three in
the afternoon, squall light, sky warm, riders belly up to the stars, clouds
clearing the weir. You must draw a poem, no more room, birth inventing
spiritual patrimony. Gable in a storm, his pants crease working up, broke
the filly right there in the truck. There are loud voices under the river,
a teacher giving instruction, the doctors' unappeased rage in the ceaseless
hammering of knees, the sullen, ground down look of continual promise.
Take my lighter wit's music, you're safer uptown, you'll bury the mall
clique In rubbish on a stoop. Absence embraces light, bitterness of anointment,
sky, day, elation aligned. Her father rescues the sofa's descent to the
basement, garage, curb, or church. She wonders what had clued him in casually,
creamy tongued, eye-glassed, expecting pinches of flesh, lips blown, cool
glazing, fewer introductions with clearer means of ignoring faces.
I wash my gloves in peppermint, get rained on in the sauna, I'm
tall enough to peg the clothesline and feel desire in my mother's lunge.
My brother on the tugboat crew tells stories of snake-lined quarries and
blusterers he'll whip; I'm like my daughter's penmanship, brilliant and
feline. I'm not telling anyone, not diluting it, it's all of it, still
bystill, separation of smoke and ground solution--I recover words, build
one, swallow gum. The communityhas paved a haven for smokers, dog-walkers,
players, pizza dressers and ball-throwers. The pleasure of seeing gives
up wanting, allowing life to play itself out in prayers or birthrights.