I know that the sun is a byproduct
of an infinitude of marigolds
and pure supple honey,
but I don’t believe it.
I know that a river is no more particular
to the water
that establishes it
than a desert is
to its every grain
of sand
but the purity
of such effort-
less movements—but. But.
As I know how easy
it is to vomit out
grief disguised as bile
but today such a notion
is verily unbelievable.
You’re as beautiful today
as you wish
to desire
to be.
The sun positively gleans today…
Past is past is past
is past…
Is past.
I grew up in a house
made out of smoke
and old mental carvings.
Father disrobed in it
the way a man stranded for decades
on a deserted island
might disrobe.
Was a superbly prolific eater, father.
Mother loved life and to work.
Today I live in a house
feeling I’m constantly dreaming
what I might have once been
busy being.
It chafes,
clutter’s reverberation
with sound.
Poems are not about
the difference between
what you know
and what you choose to reveal.
Poems are about houses.
Jeff Alessandrelli lives in Portland, OR. Recent work by him appears/is forthcoming in Pleiades, Redivider, Salt Hill, Anti-, Gulf Coast, Boston Review and the chapbooks Don’t Let Me Forget To Feed the Sharks (Poor Claudia) and People Are Places Are Places Are People (Imaginary Friend Press). This Last Time Will Be The First, his 1st full length collection of poetry, is forthcoming from Burnside Review Press in 2014.