Wednesday, July 06, 2005

5 Poems Andrew Lux

The Lighthouse

We are walking to the point tonight.
Walking on sand reminds us that our dreams
will fail us. Recently we have discovered this
in the footprints of deer. Still, we are walking
to the point tonight. The lighthouse keeper is
to play solitaire. If we are lucky the keeper will
show us
how to guide the ships to safety. For each one we
he will give us a diamond. When the cards are right
and the keeper falls asleep we walk back home.

The Best Laid Plans

We started to hide in the closets last night. Faces
assaulting the old coats. We were preparing for war.

The guns in the dark. The knives in our teeth.
Our leader sharpened his sword by the light of a
You burned a finger. The soldier with the wooden eye
showed us the torn map he keeps in his boot. He said
he knows how to bend a tree with a glass of water.
The master’s clothes are dirty. Hearing this makes us
It will be a long night. When we are hungry, we will
three times on the wall.


The seamstress in the back hallway built an empire for
my body.
She hides a poker face under the rug.
When she speaks in numbers her lips become two fish.
When the time is right she will make faces on the wall
with needles.
Now she takes my measurements and pronounces synonyms
for hell.
Man, myth, moon, master.
Synonyms stitched together with doubt and hemmed for
good measure.
They looked so good swimming from her mouth
I looked forward to the afterlife.

The Lawnmower of Sadness

The shadow of an airplane casts the same shape from
all altitudes.
The same shape as the hand you hide in your sock draw.
You pushed
the lawnmower of sadness over the earth and it came
back as a net
full of talking fish. It ran out of gas in Africa.
In Africa the fish speak
the truth. You were once their water. Your hand
casts the same shape
at all sadness. In Africa the fish are eating dirt.
You are slumping your
way back home. The fish are keeping you up late. The
dirt was a hand
and you have stolen the fish.

Smoke Signal

I buried your ghost under the beech tree
because fire is not an option for memory.
In order to make rain after the clouds
composed stillness, I slid my youth in
a bottle and marked it: take and drink.
I subtracted the shadow of my longevity
and flew it again like a kite over the fields
of your body. I make camp there tonight.
I rub these words together to make
a fire for you to see me.