How to Begin, pt. 2
By Derek Henderson

I spin myself around: all

my little universe in my hands—from which center?

Grave of bottles and rhymes

turns

a turn

in the middle of dirt

Story for an Age

I am

not just a motor of God,

a pile of coal:

A gull, a ball, a gun, a gold.

Little skull.  Busy door.  Little ball.  It is done.

Footsteps erase footsteps

in the dusty carpet

 

—the forest hides itself

rapturous in leaf in frame:

these are our overnights.

You are

here again in the dawn.  There have to be openings

in your eyes to hear

when a change occurs.

We lounge, all angles.  What lovely word is spoken

for change?