Three Poems


Graeme Bezanson

[Dear Anna someday an angel will come asking]
 
Dear Anna someday an angel will come asking
what's really bothering you and you will know him
by his maroon vest. Once I wanted to enter you
like light fills a transparent box but back then most
of what I'd learned had come from tv or was written
in tile in a swimming pool. All poems are made of
prime numbers. All stars are named for provinces
of the erstwhile dominion. After the hors d'oeuvres
I shimmied out of the hot tub and over the garden wall.
When I took off my tuxedo I found my feet stained
a black that under the light of twinkling Saskatchewan
looked blue. I had to boost a highchair from the Domino's
downstairs to raise my feet up to the sink for scrubbing.
I felt like the gorilla in a melancholy haiku.
 
 
 
 
[A factorial is a little bird that builds its nest underground]
 
A factorial is a little bird that builds its nest underground,
no tinkering frost etc, no interruptions. Again forgetting
how much B has shrunk & so must resend everything.
New sinking feeling the last time I said artist I meant
painter. Tried calling, disaster, too many twinkling
shows on television. Silence from A save her elaborate
emoticons, exclamation marks suggesting her left eye's
still swollen, the season's last terrible bee. Somewhere
instruments are winnowing the sickliest with a series
of contented clicks. I have empty pockets but a song
in my armrest. Who are these passengers but specters
of a three-personed career―astronaut, agent, towheaded
child. Algebra is an empty palace in the desert, far from
the wobbling seasons. What do I know of its passages.
 
 
 
 
[From the people who brought you the weekend, uranium]
 
From the people who brought you the weekend, uranium,
uh-oh, a long low table to lie under. I'm a teacup
in a mug's game, a message they carried to the bottom
in their heavy shoes: Keep your friends close and your
anemones closer. That thrumming is the sound of children
being airlifted a safe distance like drugged polar bears.
Camp was ok in the end, all those Indian bones. I saw
an arrow, a quincunx, a cubicle, all the other possible
shapes for five birds to fly in on their way down the Hudson.
A wood-paneled station wagon disappears beyond the outlying
pickets of dawn. I fasten my shoelaces with the knot
that they called Moses’ stutter. In Tuxedo the waitress
twirls back like a bumblebee and calls me Honey,
tells me I work too hard. I've done nothing for days.