VALERIE LAWSON GALLERY II "ellisville saltmarsh" Playing God I play God sometimes, putting the dogs on a chain, placing bowls of food and water on the ground. Sparrows come into the center, where food and chain and house meet, leave the dogs basking in sun, at the end of their reach. The birds revel in the manna the inadvertant bird bath the cool drops they swallow. I'm a child again, dipping fingers touching forehead heart, shoulder to shoulder peering through baby food jars-- stained glass windows in sunlight. The clink of licenses and rabies tags rings simple as the dogs bury their muzzles in the dishes, pluck bits of kibble, spill water onto the dusty ground. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "autumn arch" Grasshopper flies on corrugated wings lands on the picnic table pivots compass point to point sidles on long bent legs springs tests September air for scraps of July There's time left under those wings. Ants dismantle summer pull it underground grain by grain carry powdery castings up from the depths where they snowball at burrow's edge ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "nantucket window" Nantucket prop engines spin we climb plane dips startle instinct infant fear hands reach out stretch under skin of wings accept flight I squeeze your shoulder let go up here you understand geography not cling to it mainland left behind island in sight this other elbow, relaxed follows the curve of land water history with nothing but hands to card the wool spin the yarn sand held in place by the bones of whales playground now we land with a squeaky sideways lurch take a taxi to the inn roads straight lines leading to the harbor we explore try on funny hats laugh tangle in sheets bleached the color of whalebone beach shells drying on the shelf over the bathroom sink Selkie skins on plastic hangers drip in the shower we measure the island in footsteps the space left over between arms scoop images onto rolls of film as if we might forget ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "reflections" He was busy all night long, smoothing the ripples on the pond belly to the curve of my spine thigh embracing thigh arm across hip holding the door open breathing me into sleep. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "back to nature" River There is a bridge across the river you can't see over. High in the trees at the water's edge, a napkin, a fork, a forgotten clock mark the place of the last flood. Aweigh anchor, a smooth stone tied with rope, slip downstream to the dam, portage past the place where the power is hauled from the river. Pull words from the transoms of old boats, dreams from the pontoons of sea planes, river tucks the land underneath itself carves its way across for an even better fit. In the boat house, they still talk about the ice when it was 19" thick, a thin skin covering the river as it waited for spring. When the ice broke it mashed a wooden boat into matchsticks and toothpicks. Sometimes all you ever see is road, just like a river passing through town. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "decomposition horizon" Like Jazz At Three AM Water runs graceful and wide where the river bends, scoops out August green pools deep enough to dive into from the end of a tire swing as it reaches the end of its arc. There was a time when crayons were true, the colors more pigment than wax, when whole rows of new books marched on shelves, the title page of each volume carrying the smell of good paper and fresh ink. A radio station plays jazz at three AM whole notes take shape, tumble on to the pillow slip in and out of the ear like breath catch the reciever in the upper region of the heart cascade through bundles of fibers, puppet strings that pick up the tune, keep the beat, dance the song. You are all of these things, the door into a round room of doors, the window opened to night becomes day. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "strawman" Straw Man (an environmental artwork, The Fuller Museum of Art, Brockton, MA Summer 1998) everyday becomes foreign, unknown peeled off gallery walls occupying the buffer zone between art and entranceway too real for virtual, straw man your roadside stand disturbs me stacked accident waiting for a match a high wind, a herd of camels queueing up for the last predictable distance of dinosaurs placed nose to tail sure as the memories of elephants which hand will you use when the mood strikes forcing the contours of mind to shape, bundling to thatch looming to disaster simply dribbling away become compost nests for sparrows, or eagles wicca soul catcher attending silence striving to reclaim what is forever lost. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "vacancy"

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