An oldy, but goody

It's been a long recess since I last was actively writing poetry. I saw Susannah at a party last week, who took poetry with me during my senior year of college. She isn't writing anymore either. But talking to her inspired me to check out what I was writing that year-- and surprisingly (or maybe unsurprisingly) I was writing about things that I'm still thinking about now. Which is objects and how they inform and articulate my life. Margaret reminded me that there's even one about grayness (and mules!), which seems pertinent to post at some point. But maybe I should write some too. But anyways, here's a poem from that year with Susannah, Elizabeth Willis and the rest of the crew:

Archaeology

Suppose that tomorrow
the brownstones of New York chose
to walk home to their Connecticut quarries,
their tall stony backbones clattering
and heavy footsteps making an interstate mess.

If it could, I am certain that
my floor would march to Maine.
Its boards would stand up in the forest
stretch and get cleaned by the sun.

These pieces of pottery would
fuse back into bowls.
They would ride their galloping tables
through dining rooms and kitchens.

Suppose that tomorrow
I woke up next to you in bed.
We would watch the mattress springs drilling into the ground
the pillows bursting feathers back to their chickens
the small black type crawling into our mouths.