John Ashbery leans
against a wooden fence
Wind on his
white oxford
Born in a New York farmhouse in
the distance by a stand of maples
3 Poems on shelf, and more
I don’t read so much as
live with
Carver’s ashtray
Williams purses
his lips, draws in his eyebrows
Stacked
on the left—bills to be paid
tucked into envelopes
A system: books I
read, on the floor beside my bed, books
whose spines I notice
each morning with
the bills,
scotch tape, chapstick, multi-tool, and bottle opener
on cinder blocks
In the dark, Picasso
sketches a centaur with a pen light
Mili’s flash places him
squatting by a stone
wall and the figure he has
drawn on film
Chris Bevens | pedalpoet 