Poem 1

The world is split.
Some particles are
available. Others
are distractions
before they go from conception
to completion.
These others
to me
are primaries to others.
This alone has caused me
too much grief.
Remember when I wrote of the man who walks down the street
early in the morning with a suit on from a bar to a funeral?
Remember when the last catastrophe occurred, and masses ran
crazed, mad, open?
These are my particles.
I own them.
They curl against my nuzzling spots.
They are pearls, rubies, diamonds
old growth
lavish
warm.
The others -
light, rods, steel, and various physical properties of existence -
are headaches, windstorms, empty night places. Coal
coating pitted against clear polish.
They bring me
such enormous grief.

A