No Past

“One must be receptive, receptive to the image at the moment it appears.”
—Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space

In moments like these
I do what I do

I see your collage
of sea glass clad the curve
of a clam shell

and raise you a cloth bag
laden with leaves, light
fixtures, planks from bleachers, a pale

pink mannequin
arm, the final words
he whispered before

he left the café at dusk. I see straight

through our trial
to time to be served.

Popo is short
for poor poet
as much as it is
for the police.


I understand how it is
to become mesmerized
by a sea 

siren. I’ve had my own
Ondine. I’ve wanted
to destroy immortality with my mouth 

and hands. Had my own Rose
too—have followed the unraveling
of all tapestry 

in motion. It’s a disturbed drive
to erase all plot
to revel in what remains—a face 

framed just for me.