From my zero-gravity chair,

a garden! where any American friend and curly tree,
spaced between clouds and winds, would love to be

The rabbit known by scent and stride, & one good
twitchy eye is safe for now inside its poor Scotty soul

who's been freed from a raptor's talons as is tree kitten,
with a tractatus heart, limping still idly and slyly by

Aptly a lilac the colour of pierced sides is the crown
the kitten and soul wear in a garden! from where I sit

A wasp, or lost parsley space, remain about the same
like the rose's puff stem bent cruelly toward the ground

Digressions always make skies look narrow, worn to me.
A sigh from a neighboring pug is the only sigh around

Addendum:

They'd gotten into the habit (birds!) of spiking the wind--
predisposed in their favor, any way--& pounding the earth

on which fall all the crooked, muddy, personable seeds
to ever lie 'tween watered rows and some nearby weeds.

Kell Verses

 Kell verses

      (for Katherine Gordon)

She sits in her stone seat,

  beside two tractor wheels,

musing, the jug beneath her feet,

  earth of clay at her heels—

dear Kate, prophetess of rivers,

  who sends me lone breezes!

When day dies, giving sick slivers

  of light, and night freezes,

Kate, Celtic seer after the wren,

  with jade shell for an eye,

and fox that shies towards its den—

  she peers across the sky

til she finds, ript from its deep sea,

  sea-splendid, one true star—

rich as earth, and blazing at me,

  my Kate with one true star!

And far up as her dry river bed

  and down the blue heather,

(dead tractor by a lean-to shed!)

  we see it, together

our lush spectral star. And the way

  it fires her paisley shawl

Kate's soft shawl , and breaks like a spray

  of daisies along her wall,

not far from the jug and stone seat.

  Alone beside the wheel,

half-hid in daisies at her feet,

  sadly, she starts to feel

her Celtic night shake loose like leaves,

  caught in a morning gale

Mystic wren that sings in the breeze

  has star-shells for a tail

  ©Conrad DiDiodato 2008

A Sexton poem

Every poem's  like that in Sexton's cute smirk
   
 or the two lips pressed to the filter
   
or a hand draped over the only knee left to her
   


 
   

Titi

As a long-gowned leggy dancing master knows,
  "It's Titi and sweet-both,"

smirking, quick to say to dancing girls all in a row.
   But Titi, grown to stray far

has gone too far so that her lord's slender and
    near, saying "Americans

like their virgins!"and meaning every word of it--
   She's not in her quartier.

"All around and through each one of us," she
   admits, "is a type of dance

that will look dear to dancing girls all in a row"
   "Very much!" was his reply
 


 
 

My goodbye to the neighbour's cat

With milk on the chin and feathery lip,
  (uncoiling, to show you)
she mews, & rises misty-nosed, too
  because you'd like
  to say bye

But she turns the tension into a nap,
  into a very 'O':
so I can bear easily the milk on her lip,
  (coiling, to show me)
  when I go

Gary

(1954-1980)

The grass blown over your eyes,

  I saw, soul-shrivelled

in wind, wet in an early Spring,

  an absent heart

(were it just grass borders taking

  you in!),

 and even a

  slight form of a daughterless dad

(were it just in the way the next

  stone took you out),

  & a very wet sunken place

( Gary , not a tree around for

  you either!)

With some watchful sweeping, alone

  alone all the time, I

saw the step, smile & the veiny brow

  returned,

and very shapeless under my

  feet  a

few leaves yet to brush from the eyes,

                              old friend

Gertrude

When it's out of your hands,  and the cute curled face
   of the cat-saint takes one in hers,

look on a bit & wait. The two or three others, breathless
  and tight-lipped (those cats of hers!)

she won't embrace because they are beyond Nevelles fields,
  and beyond me every bit as much--

these, --I pray !--be always yesterday's poor  inexistent
  twitching under her heat