Time and Materials, by Robert Hass:

To make layers,
As if they were a steadiness of days:

It snowed; I did errands at a desk;
A white flurry out the window thickening; my tongue
Tasted of the glue on envelopes.

On this day sunlight on red brick, bare trees,
Nothing stirring in the icy air.

...

Made love, made curry, talked on the phone
To friends, the one whose brother died
Was crying and thinking alternately,
Like someone falling down and getting up
And running and falling and getting up.

I hear what do I hear in these sounds I hear myself I hear My uncle is a lawyer's clerk the taste of glue on envelopes, I call him twice a year, sunlight on red brick, the jersey shoreline and familiar air, as if I licked stamps for a living.
'like someone falling down and getting up. and running and falling and getting up.'
I hear Hass, in whom I always heard myself, Privilege of Being, Meditation at Lagunitas, one only needs a few poems for a lifetime of remembered cadences..
'..the angels are desolate. They hate it. They shudder pathetically
..and one day, running at sunset, the woman says to the man,
I woke up feeling so sad this morning because I realized
that you could not, as much as I love you, dear heart, cure my loneliness'
I woke up and the animals were all around, the giraffe with his head in the lap of hyena
saying blackberry blackberry blackberry

The object of this poem is to report a theft,
In progress, of everything
That is not these words everything that is not these words, this arranging, is being taken. lost.
And their disposition on the page. this is all we can keep, if I tell you, we will be okay, if the weather is what happens. (preservation it's all the same, straightened a shirt on its hanger, the world is touching itself and I cannot stand it). if the losing is what happens. lost into it. arrangements on the page, having by heart.
Pages are browning in the sunlight,
A collar is wrinkling, not organized
Properly on the hanger. The world
Is touching itself and I cannot stand it.
Preservation it’s all the same
I held a voice to my lips
I pressed a hand on my word
By heart had all the arrangements
When the body left out
into it
Yet speaking against
the losing

Or to render time and stand outside
The horizontal rush of it, for a moment
To have the sensation of standing outside
The greenish rush of it.

green, the green rush.
'if only for a minute, or two, I want to know what it feels like to be without you' lucinda

Some vertical gesture then, the way that anger
Or desire can rip a life apart,

Some wound of color.

green is a color. anger, desire, wound, these are not green.

under cover, *my* daylikewidewater, of thorpe's poem posted by m # 1:42 PM maybe it sounds so my own bcs it sounds like Hass? but maybe more abrupt than.
My uncle is a lawyer's clerk in London I call him twice a year Dear heart, he says, How are you?
The Atlantic takes dictation Every syllable a naval boy Down the chute, his coffin made to sink.
Very discursive
Love, if the sauce is too clear, Just add cornflour
My hands make a frame Left / Right The Jersey shoreline and the familiar air As if I licked stamps for a living


Feb06

source
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you're reading a book and you make some notes in the margin -- you say
things similar, more or less of your own. this goes on for days.one day, you open the book to a new page and there
in the book's text are sentences that you have written.
before, already. or not? maybe, it must be,
you had already read this page and then
you wrote it down. no. the footnote in the book's text credits you.these are sentences you wrote in the margins. flip back and see.

repose
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That's what I wanted to tell you.
All the things you could say, you're saying this. -With all the fish in the sea? -Not like her.
These are what I am thinking when I am at the window. when I wake up. when I brush my teeth.My mind returning home, says I'm so sorry.-I want to know things. -Why didn't you tell me sooner? -I just wanted to hear you say it. -So you're not angry? - I'm not done yet. –Shhh... -Just let me get my mind around this. –What
is that—that metaphor? -Don't do this. -I'm sorry.
I still miss you. I'm looking out the window, this is the voice in my head.
To me these are the only real things in the world.