Peter Yovu


Where Have You Been


In the mill of a molecule
hamstered round and round.
In the attic of an egg.

Tangled up
in jellyfish legs.
Dogging my cat,

dodging the dew
crows fly through.
In the kitchen of a clock

where time gets cooked.
Rummaging fog
for the blink of an oyster.

Painting an eye
under a coffin’s lid.
On the heels of an eel.



Sometimes I See You 
					after Tomaš Šalamun


In one corner of the earthquake birds flinch.
In another, unripe apricots bounce off the ground.

Sometimes I see you confined as an earthworm.
You can use any weakness you want. 

Or at the mausoleum of sharks, 
with an open heart, handcuffed. 

The long drought. Biscuits shatter. 
Sunset: the coronation of the night.

You can use any weather you want, 
even doze beside a walrus.

Sometimes I see you 
in one corner of the empty theater

where thoughts explode 
with every disappearance. 



Someone 
 

enters your room, says
who said you could wake like that?
Describe yourself!
 
The bathroom mirror.
He’s still asleep. 

A voice downstairs.
It's time for breakfast.
Who’ll get there first?

Freshly pressed pants,
perfect for work.
You slip your hand in a pocket.

Someone’s is already there. 



From My Dream Notebook, 1993-1994


A surfer, a bug bite, the eggcase of a shark.
The dance company bows to an audience of sunflowers.
The brass plate on the door read: Earwig Surgeon.
Wearing a welder’s mask, carrying a basket of forget-me-nots.

A very small boy drawn to the green glow in a pickel barrel.
A dog dragging a small yacht down my street.
The oversized smiles on some elves pursued by Elvis.
Lorca at his typewriter watching killer whales at play.

The fireflies were infested with lice that also glowed.
Oysters in pink wellingtons.
The black sun was studded with lilies.
Turn on my reading lamp. It’s a jellyfish.



Things, You Might Say


Turtles come up for air, seeds come up for light.  
Weeds take root in gardens of doubt. 
Icy slopes have no lap.

A movie screen is a well into which eyes are dropped.
The buzz of gossip attracts spiders. 
There is already dust in the attic of an egg. 

As eggs are to ovaries, tears are to eyes.
Inch and ounce have more to say than mile and ton.
What’s clear to the pepper is fog to the sea. 



Someones, So Many 


Someone’s cousin, someone’s almost forgotten
fourth grade bully, someone’s paralegal
take elevators up over delis and bootshops, 
take their tranced eyes and wept cheeks to offices
whose walls are unlikely ever to be lavender or mauve.
Where most words will most likely go unspoken.

Others get on with their lives somewhere else.  
Get on a horse, get on a boat, get on a bed 
with their lives. Someone sitting on a couch 
next to someone else, getting on with her life.

Insects too, midges for example, get on with their lives, 
thousands in miniature murmurations. Each individual
midge has a mouth adequate to get the blood
it needs, sometimes human. Each individual dies,
human and midge. People who’ve had haircuts have been
bothered by them. People who’ve had nails done.
Could be the cologne. Could be the acetone.

People who’ve had haircuts on very hot days.
Men with dark skin digesting the news.
Men with light skin digesting different news.
Women with moles that need to checked.
Women who sometimes dress themselve twice
in one day, adding silk to chiffon. Nice shoes.

Bad things happen and someone knows
he is no longer someone bad things don’t
happen to, but it takes a while to sink in. 
Still, he gets on with his life. He gets on 
an elevator and half smiles at someone who is
getting on with her life too. 

Peter Yovu lives near Montpelier Vermont. He recently found a dead mole on the road he frequently walks, then another one farther up. He continues to believe that discovery and surprise are in inexhaustible supply. They keep him going. His website is https://www.peteryovu.com/

 
 

previous page     contents     next page