Certainly Uncertain: a love of tone poem

Here is the place I am thinking,
                            "here is the place I am thinking."

That is something.

I'm also in a story with a station wagon,
if we are making sounds,
in the far country of the back, looking up, a friend
of the trees, the streetlights, my body
leaning, rolling really
through the going home turns
as if I'm out to sea, see.

I always wanted to be picked up and carried
sleeping into the house as a child
today.

I always thought I could wash your feet
in a bucket of rain water
with lavender.

Your eyes are closed, and in that privacy,
some other man is washing your feet
in a rain bucket
with water lavender, though you know
that in my privacy
he is me.

Supernova ova oeuvre.

If we are making sounds.

If the dead finch is in my pocket.

I always wanted snow to be lucid
last night, to stand perfectly
or imperfectly still and have pieces
of the universe melt on my eyes, to not blink
when pieces of the eververse
speak lightly crystal water
to who am I, really,
comes together or loosens
threadlike and threadbare.

If we are calamities.

If I are grammatically a pause or clause
in the always,
                    and this, this wanting
exploding stars eggs
                                        everything, really,
to speak or be spoken to, like
"how could you," like
          "the screaming stopped," like
                        "the beautiful crotch smell of your eyes."

I always wanted to be honest
right now:
you'll have to bite me
for this to work.

Hard and through and twice and always
            into.

Copyright © 2009 Bob Hicok All rights reserved
from Fourteen Hills
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission