Mobirise Site Creator

Winter, 2003

Steve Schutzman


Thirty and Deep In My Shoes

and that which is coming together in my head
is the same as what's gathering behind me

and the bones I am grabbing for in my fist
are the bones of my race
are the bones of the ancestor I am to myself

and I am a man of flesh and hope who is tilting a bottle
        to his lips
and I will drink the light on
and be remembered like this
poised at the tip of my own antique tongue

for I am a man whose death holds him up with bones
who has lived thirty years, each one now tumbling down
        its own brown curve
who has just been given his legs
who no one has been able to ride yet

and I have walked far on feet made of the dream I am
        trying to remember
hauling these eyes around
packed inside every inch of me an animal, an animal
        packed with me

does life give off the faint odor of luck today?
or is it a small box of wounds delivered and refused
       year after year?
whirlwinds released in the tiny arenas of ankles and
an infant's unfinished head?
milk up to here?

no it is the grin of a man on the bottom
who resided where the night sky is a well and his head
        a bucketful of drunken stars
no it is only me and my death who is holding me up for a
        little while with bones