Scissors

For Marilyn who died in January april 1

M.A.K. September, 1880-September, 1955 As I wandered on the beach
I saw the heron standing

At the confluence of tea roses and Russian sage
we made a right at the curved iron fence,
one of my dead friends beside me explaining how trees communicated
but I couldn’t understand a thing because it was all blurry — 
the way it gets — and though I knew him well
I couldn’t say for sure now whether it was Larry or
Phil or Galway or Charlie until I realized it was me
talking in some kind of Hebrish they spoke

for Gary Snyder

“I think I’ll be the Buddha of this place”

and sat himself
down


1.

Proof Sheets: 36 Prints
These photographs are the index of an hour,

The day gets slowly started.
A rap at the bedroom door,
bitter coffee, hot cereal, juice
the color of sun which
isn’t out this morning. A
cool shower, a shave, soothing
Noxzema for razor burn. A bed
is made. The paper doesn’t come

She is large and matronly
And rather dirty,
A little sardonic-looking, as if domesticity had driven her to it.

Though what she does, except lay four eggs at random in the garden once a year
And put up with her husband,
I don't know.