I Visited an Oyster Cannery
Bushel, bushel, bushel
Rowboats in the oyster pen
stuck in the clucky muck.
There are certain styles, you see,
Rainwater stumps or pants cut off
At the shin. Net, net net.
Let me be perfectly honest.
I am chirping away from a certain
Distance. I dream places into my rooms
And I conjure
What I can no longer see
From the red, red chair.
It’s All Fun and Clever Until It Happens To You
One poet went to another poet’s house
And began to erase her books. The visiting poet
Took an ink pen and scratched out words.
Late at night, she sat at the kitchen table
Where she drew lines through whole phrases.
The other poet could hear the scraping as
Her guest erased whole stanzas until the books
Became other books. You’ve heard this before.
It’s a new art form, erasing other people’s work.
Only thing was, the guest poet erased the poetry
Of her host, the poetry that the poet living in the house
Had actually written. It didn’t seem so quaint
A pastime anymore, this artistic innovation,
This funny little thing to do. In the end, the host
Told her guest to take all the books with her,
All the freshly erased and scraped out books,
The ones no longer her own, or anyone’s really.