poem in june

though i know it's august & the slim months
eye you like philosophy caught napping
by the intentional fallacy it's still a nasty fate
if you believe it & underneath your singlet
a layer of air keeps you warm
while your personal failings grab their backpacks
& take off, leaving the stop
where the 428's always scheduled but never arrives,
& this & the thought of a different summer
or the light exploiting the curve of your chin
drags out the pamphlets & the whole thing starts again,
self-involved as compound interest & vaguely rattling,
almost like machines you might have built as a child
before you understood the principles of mechanics
& the internal combustion engine,
not that you do now or these tentative structures
you hope will last the night are winning awards
& that's why you're reading the paper this morning,
transparent & floating in the greasy city
& happy as a phone number always remembered,
the body cooling quietly with a smile & the steam
from the shower slipping quietly out the door.

(Overland 160, 2000)

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ted@magicdog.com -- 21 December 2000