Nicole Burgund

Each goes separately 

with no flashlight.  In another room

the rest asleep for the one

she began composing (like the known

Japanese lady-in-waiting’s

“Things not worth doing”) lists.


From one direction I heard voices.

The sun, it was well-a-day. 

I smelt the sugared treetops and the person

trapped between empty palace halls

begged me, sleep without images—

And if you don’t try hard enough!  And morning

never comes!  He talked to a tapered reed—

You couldn’t blame him, he’d seen

the muskrat’s teeth. 

What’s said after a nightmare, cold white to little sun.

The child grows up, the cycle of the floodlight

to off again.  An ember.

Good morning, good orange.  How could so

delicate a one so squawk?

Hers is the best idea for a dictionary

and yes he loves her for it.

I have a round feeling for a friend, I’d like

several bright stamps to send it.

No day is for sale.

From the other direction you saw

my poor harp on a table.