Sam Truitt




sunday, june 12, 1998

—for WD & JB


the skeleton of a single bird on a single tree does

make a spring


backed against memory of these things concrete

wall all is crushed before seen


what is that the pattern of sky as hue heaved in

branches leaves of beech trees sun and now this

one bird and now everything sleeping the grass its

own pillow like words that need no one around to

cut them


the wound is in my eyes sunsets bruises that guide

my heart if i can find


famous people walking through the lighted room

then stand in darkness looking in


warner is sleeping up late left his haake beck bottle

and bali shag cigarette pouch and jim is sleeping

and cherry and flo with a sheet over her face is



what happens when you sleep is your body is alone

and all the arrows point inward toward the same



the mind a sheet through which light pours


the raccoon is not sleeping walks to the edge of the

trees and looks into the house its face like a

grandfather then a grey cat with white back legs

walks where the raccoon was sniffing. molly and

nora are hiding so there is this sphere of silence

that is not made of silence but stillness eyes move

in not breaking as much as weaving it and not

tighter but larger as though to site it it would go on



what ideas are being cast around?


what is the logic forms of tongue confound?


a large diamond is buried under the ground i mean

under the ground so that you cannot dig for it only

get there by being the ground and then lifting

yourself off molly's head above the window sill

now looking into the trees in the direction of where

the raccoon was her black fur glistening





wednesday, july 19, 2001

fire on the mountain


like a red balloon emerging out of a toilet a woman

with a page of music open on her lap lip-syncs

gesturing with her hand


left is where my broken pinkie is


the ancient water breathing out of outer space


this book consists of




wednesday, march 10, 2000


two blind people walking arm in arm their eyes a

mess talking their sticks sweeping left right in



some would posit the one sovereign thing worth

seeing is inside us


move from describing to feel things climb the wall

built up inside us


most of life is invisible


most of who we are a story tapped on the little



to come to kindness through the blindness to

feeling through our bodies in all their explosions


on union square a replica of the maze at chartes

spray painted on the blacktop