We introduce myself in the foyer, being little
soft with my voice and cupping it
A carafe of water on the table
is there. Is it.
Insects blitz my head
of hair and I think, them.
We’re going all to
a same house
They are around me in delicate shoes,
doing to the parquet
this walk they wheeze thru.
Circa, I let the dog off laying on some grass
beside the court. Think of it. My white dog
is splotched. She goes to the water
and wants it and the fountain is to be twisted.
It flops forth, I don’t why this
in particular way.
the air is tight with smells
and I see a couture of birds
in their seats. They not only look
as though they are coming & they cling
in the same breath.
What I wouldn’t say to anyone is that
Deguy is a French poet who flips between
languages during an explanation.
Getting my back, my heart, whose people
to talk to get very few. I touch them.
It is the pain I wear shoes for,
it is being around.