Pete Spence


Collected Poems September 9th a Sunday.


1. 9:27. a.m.

it's 9:27. a.m. our lounge room
standard time     why are my hands
shaking?     why are the french doors shaking?
that's not a breeze bouncing
like a wrecking ball off
the west wall!     a storm outside
and Weill's "Berliner Symphonie"
inside!     Jubelnd     if that
is possible? the coffee
is brewed


2. Gouttes de Pluie.

Apollinaire tapping
on the french doors      p
gouttes de  p     p        p     l    p
                         l       l    p    l      u   l
                          u      u    l    u      i   u
                             i       i     u    i      e   i
                                    e  e      i    e           e
                                                e

3. Kind of Blue.

Melting note
into air
laid flat
emerges again
sharp

Dabs blue
as a cloud's
vellum sound
in shape and
space


4. Custer's last poem to Gertrude Stein.

arrows    arrows    arrows



 
 
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