Jeanie Dreams of Me

It’s not the solitude of a monk,

more of a butterfly I’d imagine.

It’s a tree alone like a monk in the mind

of a butterfly, or a butterfly that thinks

like a monk-fish on the line

of a prioress

or monk.

Keeping in mind silence,

even monks

have to sweep the floor

or water vegetables in the garden,

a spell which must have been broken

sometimes

by thoughts of dirt—or water...

and here comes a little tune:

Pigs!

Keep it down a little, will you?

Deep in Brooklyn, Jeanie is dreaming

of Sinatra audio masters dregged from the bottom of Gowanus.

They emerge tarnished like Spanish bullion from the sea.

Her bedside turntable sports a negative needle

for playing the masters ad infinitum, turning on and off

my turned-on master.

“Start spreading the news...”

from high-rise window cleaners to deep sea divers

who have a way of dispelling these vagabond blues.

Under a weight equal to Mt. Kenya,

they hold their breath for a stretch

of time unimaginable to landlubbers,

the soundless sound of which makes divers

among fish the greatest con artists in the world.

See them waving to tuna and mackerel,

taking a bow to the roar of a million fins clapping.

Then nothing—

not a bubble out of them for years,

while on land the a cappella chorus of porcine grunts

swirls above the rooftops like a wind slamming windows,

saving houses from the leaves

falling madly to the ground.