webb3

M a r k   L e e   W e b b

Visiting Day

    —after Ezra Pound

The front lawn is filled

with neurotic mothers

and their psychotic sons.

And their daughters, who 

wear silk scarfs—

gauze veils— over ligature

marks from short-term

stays twenty years ago.

The fathers stare down at

the ground, kick the dirt

with their boots, carry

their burdens home.

Here Are No Hyacinths

Jasmines, or Marguerites here. 

All we have on our floor 

is a woman with a blood root.

She’s an icy white bloom 

that prevailed a season ago,

attracting impatient suitors—

winter stragglers—

blossom beetles and cold-clumsy 

bumble bees. Her chart says late 

last spring she was picked 

up in a bar, then dropped 

hard. That’s why she bruises 

so easily, why she sometimes 

bleeds an orange-red sap, a tacky 

crimson that sticks to everything.

           (From a story in the New York Times) 

Melamine Buddha

in a stained white suit sold me an electric moondial 

guaranteed unaffected by gathering cumulus

        or at midnight long         as you keep it away 

from lightning flashes cause they can crack the shadow.

But after two weeks dusk still incinerates my feet –

August-hot sand on my toes         like time 

I crossed new Canal Road          Dad used turpentine 

     peeled tar         saved as much skin as possible

         so tonight I think I’ll just dial the moon 

down       pull old socks       over new scars.

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