l u c a s    f a r r e l l


If man was indeed born when the first animal wept, then it
should be clear enough why I have been dying to drown.    

River of Life


If it werent for my refrigerator light
Id acknowledge the incandescence of the bird in my refrigerator,
the one I understand to be a regular bird, just a regular old bird
without a head.

Im afraid God thinks Im his telephone voice.

Im afraid God thinks Im his nose in profile.

Im afraid if God saw me, he would very nearly recognize me.
Lost as hed be in my many woods of grief.

Dont touch my things,
he would want to say—

so say it.

Welcome to the three-star
hotel of my mind.

Like anyone else,
I quote the many woods of grief.

For instance, the moon here is divided into thirds.

The moon is a love triangle dropped in a flour bin
(its white cloud outpour incorrigible, soft).

Months come and go as if bearing
fresh trout for supper.

You, me, our awesome appliances.

Id like to use that toothbrush, please,
the one with your face attached to it.

In the orchard of beloved green apples,
there is a relinquishing of the city-body, the city-self.

My refrigerator light is one weir in the River.

Like the first kiss of a strangers elbow
in the backseat of your mothers fears,
wait for it (my refrigerator light)
to brush up against you.

You whose seawater floods my acoustic guitar.

In the same way bees dodge raindrops in the night
given their capacity for discerning particular
shades of black, Ive spent
a lifetime searching for the blackest film frame
in the Peoples History of Drive-In (from 1933 to the Present),
exploring every public archive
in the many woods of grief.

This country of I know what you left unsaid.

As my refrigerator light makes its way toward you.

The musk of careful interaction in the limelight of uncertainty
rustles through the leaves. In the many woods of grief.

The dial-tone.
Which is the equivalent of
Gods unfamiliarity
with aspects of himself.

All that is clear is that everyone around here drinks.
So as to employ the vocabulary of the birds weve hunted to extinction
in the many woods of grief.

I am fortunate in that I happen to be
a pretty good-looking dead thing.

For instance, I could never imagine what it
must feel like to be asphalt in its infancy.

When the doctor asked me to have a little faith,
I told her to expose her right breast
so Id have something to press my unholy against.

Thats a line should be FedExed to the many woods of grief.

Your words are the house lights coming on
after a double-bill screening
in a theatre I was led to ungently by the wrist—
the words whose sole effect
is in reaffirming how real this world we live in
must be to live in.

No one is ever so alone as in the moment he asks for
the check and, instead, receives an incandescent bird
where the dinner mint should be.

This is not a precise enough translation
of what I was unable to tell you
the night you became something other
than moonlight in a drawer.

I want to and do believe in bird and in you


LUCAS FARRELL lives in Vermont, where he doubles as a bartender and part-time teacher. Currently, he is co-teaching a class with visual artist Louisa Conrad at Middlebury College entitled, Invoking the Third Mind: Conversations and Collaborations Between Artists. To see their students' collaborative work, go to www.the3rdmind.wordpress.com.

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