O, 1987

How you nested in the bones of '86
and ate your way out
with a fork and knife and a napkin
tucked into your Oxford,
not spilling a single day.
How you remarked on the service.
How you waited from the end
of the dock, the long, narrow dock
with boards missing and the wedding
party standing around under
the sun in linen suits with dead
flowers in their lapels, heads
upright and still, ingesting each
word from the priest's mouth like a petal.
How you came frozen and wrapped
in newspaper with one eye
locked on the moon on the morning
of New Year's Day. How you stunk
until the rain came, how you swam
into the air when the rain came
and left early through a hole in the sky
on the 4th of September
and for four months we sat year-less
on the beach, waiting.
But nothing came. Just 1988.
Chapbook of Poems for Morton Feldman
P. Scott Cunningham
Cunningham_cover

Chapbook of Poems for Morton Feldman

P. Scott Cunningham

Floating Wolf Quarterly Cover_wolf