That Looks Like Martha

in fact
             upon closer inspection
that woman
in the existential aisle
             of Bookmart
is a little taller thinner with straighter hair and a more angular jaw

if I see her again my complexion might take on strange hues
these being fluorescent lights

and then I'd have to avoid smooth surfaces
             except for the one tiny spot in between bookshelf and desk where
                          I sit and am reflected
or my voice might drop to sea-level or lilt slightly so that it sounds as if
             I'm mewing or calling

the phone rings:

the same day appears on the street my predecessor
such a strange and aristocratic waif
wearing what I've decided are Schuyler colors—a dot of
                           watermelon and a splash
of pale orange
                          the other side of the street
             is still there

and there are those lines of color like the perforations in my Porter print
             where cars might
cross
             or collapse into the center

oh she's still taller than me!

I've only just decided this could be called "Two Thieves and Their
             Assassins"
the assassins part I'll have to think on
             since Susan told me this word borrows too much from the
                          surrealists and she's right
                          that was for a longer poem I was writing outside on
                                       bathroom tiles and
             never quite finished in the sense that Sea Lyrics can and might
                          be finished
or "As One Put Drunk Into the Packet Boat"
was my favorite poem till I realized I was in it

Numbers Begin to Figure in Nina's Paintings

these leaves are big enough
             for my humongous fake fur and accompanying shade of hair color
                          counting Swedish fish and numbering them as if this were
                                       a nature show
on television where I live
and pretend not to

wish you had my number?

or is the sound of a poem numberless
             if repeated enough
across the dusty corridors of

Love,
you are a petty thief who lives in France "part time"
and pawns off Venetian glass on unsuspecting acquaintances
a sure-firer better of life and limb
you've decorated my heart with so many mismatched patterns
I can no longer determine whether this is a trompe l'oeil

without you I'd be a wreck of a flowerbed, a paper boat which never seals
             shut
and decides to go "on leave"
inside the glove compartment's Life Saving & Water Safety
put out by Red Cross during the great hailstorm of the thirties
are many wonderful tips:
                          steadfastly resist the tendency to panic
                          do not attempt the offshore float or crossing
                          before prepared for a "jobble" of water
                          you may need to come to land some distance
                          from where you entered

Let Song Birds Sing

when one is a stitch
             on a quilt
                          made for an occasion

occasionally it seems that that one is breath on wind, air trapped in
             circular garages or
a condo which has been given up on

(since those one loves have become photographs)

or since it is my belief that I ultimately make the choice whether to stay
             ignore

or let be
             it is I that must come back to the Italian restaurant of sighs
and wonder how in the hell—

sitting in that easy chair
your hand propped under your chin

wearing the same Mikli glasses your cousin wears
only trying to look bookish, brand new, and mean

I mean what a bore to stare at a Newman painting
and see yourself and your own ambition staring back

meanwhile there are these bony leaves
that make a wave, like, disappear!

it's Saturday
which stands for all Saturdays

a song is a drug you tell yourself you need
till need takes over and you really do