Bruce Covey
Split
I keep hearing a buzzing in my pocket
One that divides the space into two portions
A wedge at the top of the net, the one that decides
Whether the yellow ball will fall onto this side or that
One uplifted by clay—above all the dust—& typing
Its buttered kernels from east to west—breeze’s
Faulty template buried under an X, one to take
& sort and deposit in the bank, scaled according
To a pound a mile, breaking a phone at its hinge.
Vibration’s me or not-me, my heart or a fan
Seeing you after two months makes me warm
& adore & live for the wrapping—what doesn’t drag
Or erupt from underground roots—daisy at the edge
Of the assessment, one so easily squashed or missed.
Or: back to river’s mistiness & seeing you launch
Into the water from its corresponding tire swing
Bald and undrivable—not you—your heavy brown
Parted & sweeping, a little curl, you propose.
Thinking park’s bench can’t possibly hold me
So many pennies to worry about, crabs infesting
The bottom of the ocean—liquid spiders understand
Radio vibrations better than I ever will
For a suited 8 & 4—let’s sneak off in check & fold
Able to renegotiate the many floors by peeking
At the building’s ribs through the glass elevator
Thinking one might split the ceiling—a chimney’s
Openness, smoke left to interpretation but sliced
By roof’s rooster pointing S now & shaking undecided
That way—this is the way to read it I’m right
& you’re wrong & don’t be frightened it’s bread time
Pivot
Delicious eloping alongside
Apples, and all downhill from here.
Spokes articulating a linguistic trajectory
A fan, a bicycle tire, locus of flitting tips
Ultimately extending, topping, then a hat here,
A fixed income, a strange please may
I have some gum, a skid pointing
To past’s only outcome, particular coal.
So you stick a log on top of the television
To keep yourself warm, put it onto
The food network, where Alton Brown
Boils potatoes, unveiling carrots
Between sets and catching up on air.
It’s the telephone. It’s rain. It’s air,
Whispering from beyond your
Forthcoming doom. It’s a red light.
It’s a cantaloupe. It’s the weather channel.