out shirts on my first-floor balcony,
happen to notice a white, wire coat hanger
from one low branch of the tree
by our neighbour's garden.
it doing there?
it's a homage to Jasper Johns
six months here in the Korean War,
in memory of the feelings of his friend
remembered a 'loneliness' from seven years before
into my ears off Sendai in the snow...'
where he saw that whiteness during August '45
don't for the life of me know).
yes, I suppose it could be mine,
about by a wind
unhooks the things you can hang on a line
bough: an abandoned black plastic umbrella,
strips of white paper containing bad fortunes,
in neat bows, transferred to the tree
which seems to have absorbed them;
away the luck; at any rate, survived.
one more layer of overlapping greens
painted out winter, some distant love's
can still be glimpsed through freckled tones
bark, sap, chlorophyll; like a phantom limb,
patches come, pale down, a hand --
so much else that could depend
a coat hanger among the leaves.