I wrote this poem. It's about a salamander I saw on my birthday, the day I took shape. I ran out of steam, though. I ended on a part of speech I don't know the name for.
HaPpY DaY!
The octopus might swim like a woman
but under the waves he tells stories only a man could.
Dangers are skies, the sirens tell us everything
we need to know. It is to fabricate a beneficent God
to explain geological movements, a carousel
in the city park, encased now in molten glass,
all the horses blowing sulfurous.
As if to say: this is not a joke. Get real, give me a nickel
for memory, for memory becomes feral in the rain,
soaked to the loam, where our ancestors
are telling guttural jokes about the lateness of the day.
A salamander on the trail this afternoon, all orange
as Halloween dipped in kerosene.
Does he breathe to the same God
that we do? Jacob Boehme passed out under
The linden trees, muttering a new poetry
Of
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