Not a poem

Not a Poem:  Patrick Lawler follows St. Francis Down the Freeway

                Because it's a solar oven, I sit in the car with door open.  I read a Patrick Lawler poem from his new book, Feeding the Fear.  Then I read another.  While I am reading, clouds of shadow pass over the page, roiling and twisting.  Heat radiation.  The sun bends through it reaching toward the words. They escape like smoke.  I tumble into the hooting coos of mourning doves.  This is not a poem, I say.  This is mortality.  We dream the world solid.  I bang on it with my fist.  See, I say to no one in particular.  To Dante, to Persephone, to you, see?  It's not a dream.  It's too hard to be a dream.  Too difficult.  It's real.   My hand hurts, and the banging echoes in my head.  I wake up.  It's morning.  I brush my teeth, start frying eggs. Then I wake up again.  I'm in this car and it is driving down the road by itself.  No one is steering.  The car goes faster and faster.  Careens down a hill.   But I'm okay.  I'm reading this poem by one of the Patrick Lawlers, reading through shimmering shadows, through heat and dove song, and I know this is just a dream.  Mary Stebbins, 060328

Not a Poem:  Patrick Lawler follows St. Francis Down the Freeway

                The car's a solar oven; I leave the door open.  Inside, feet hanging out, I read a poem from Patrick Lawler's new book, Feeding the Fear.  Then another.  Clouds of shadow pass over the page as I read, twist and weave.  Heat radiation.  The sun bends through it reaching toward the words. They escape like smoke.  I tumble into the coos of mourning doves.  When I stand again, they gather on my arms and shoulders in pairs.  This is not a poem, I say.  This is mortality.  We dream the world solid.  I bang on it with my fist.  See, I say to no one in particular.  To Dante, to Persephone, to you, see?  It's not a dream.  It's too hard to be a dream.  Too difficult.  Too real.   The thumping hurts my hand and echoes in my head.  I wake up.  It's morning.  I brush my teeth, start frying eggs. Then I wake up again.  I'm in this car and it is driving down the road by itself.  It goes faster and faster.  Careens down a hill.  In most dreams, I'd be terrified, but I'm okay.  I'm reading this poem by one of the Patrick Lawlers, reading through shimmering shadows, through heat and dove song, and I'm safe because I know this is just a dream.  Mary Stebbins, 060328b

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I am certain of nothing but the Heart's affections and the truth of the Imagination- John Keats
Mary