Goin to the movies
I found a shelter from the sun


André Ethier, Untitled, 2005

The Fox Explains The Dream of Foxes
-- by Hannah Craig

The women have come through the field,
one line for milk, another for flour.
They were told to wait there
for an hour, maybe two—
that was days ago. Some stand
but others sink back onto their heels.

There are dogs out there in the grasslands—
at the edge of the circle, grinning, baring their teeth.
But the women, too, could chew on rawhide,
could murder, give chase, devour anything
that moves. They could round out each
of a dozen solitary paths across the world—
meet in a great, physical hunt, get down on all fours
in the dust. I mean. In theory they could.

There's no fur on the ground—
but the women leave their hair behind them,
a few strands floating from a comb,
some stuck to a collar, a blanket, a sheet.
The art of clinging evolves as such,
to avoid the appearance of intent.
The women leave little red purses
behind them, beads, worn places
in the grass.

You think there's no shame in waiting?
Someone will come to assign you
a can of soup, a jar of rice. Someone
will let you be human, or send you
to the dogs. But love is subservient to need.
And the field is not peace; rich soil
is fed by blood, good fruit by toil and pain

Heat
-- by H.D.
O wind, rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it to tatters.

Fruit cannot drop
through this thick air--
fruit cannot fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes.

Cut the heat--
plough through it,
turning it on either side
of your path.

Thing Language
-- by Jack Spicer

This ocean, humiliating in its disguises
Tougher than anything.
No one listens to poetry. The ocean
Does not mean to be listened to. A drop
Or crash of water. It means
Nothing.
It
Is bread and butter
Pepper and salt. The death
That young men hope for. Aimlessly
It pounds the shore. White and aimless signals. No
One listens to poetry.

Tale
-- by Frank Stanford

The maid used to pull the drapes
So I could see dust

When it didn't rain
I bought gum and worked in the boat
There was a locked up shack down the road
With a stack of records in the bedroom

We could tell when strangers were around
From what they drank

The girls waited in the orchards
There was no need to lie