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Dear Crazy

Rob Hack

 

Other poets he reads at arm’s length.
His subjects chosen the way he towels himself
after a bath or how he catches an apple unexpectedly tossed.
_
He did watercolours, until someone said Paul Klee.
A letter to Crazy Horse lies unfinished on a desk like an altar.
_
On windy afternoons he spits beside the incinerator
observes the smoky smoulder of dry grass alight
then the night, and someone brings whisky.
_
He wakes at midday, wants to piss
sees Ezra Pound smoking at the kitchen table
pulls the covers and lies still.
_
Through the unopen window, the flitting of birds
the scratch of dry leaf on the concrete path.
He lies unhearing, stares at the ceiling
like an unwashed Michelangelo.

 

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