Trina Burkes poems have appeared recently in Drunken Boat, Word /for Word, Fawlt, Prick of the Spindle, The Iron Horse Review, and Quarterly West. She received an MFA in poetry from the University of Montana and an MA in English from Western Washington University.

CLEF

Who needs stars in this dumpster carpet
tableaux? Felt hat felt hat felt, its
like one, all head-bang. Its
hand-woven by the women this carpet
for standing. Its woven in clashing colors
of cotton fabricorange/blue/
red. A damper, a mat that sucks
vibration, cuts off, mutes before
it reaches the feet but those feet
have got that carpet licked.
They dont tellthe shudders travel
a rhythm and a tempo lined and rutted
like a no mans land.
Hes laying down the groove lifting
and stamping like hes never done it
before. Like its all hes ever done.

Why didnt those women weave birds?
Just lines and colorscerulean and taupe.
Why, when we weave, do we weave rugs?
A melodythats what.
Something more than rows, more than pattern.
Like melting a box of crayons together.
First: dump them out on the ground.
Then: Unwrap each oneaubergine,
tourmaline. Then mount them against
each other, like a fire pile
or a tepee. On the sidewalk.

In full sun. By dusk a puddle of hues.
A hunk of all-at-onceness.

TuningGetting closer but still
with waver, he writes, too. On
notation paper.
Cruising true-believer. Blazing
ukulele. Classic frets. Pulse

blue light blue night lighthouse.
Were talking about the buzz
of radiator in the corner. Heat
and buzz and concentric ripples
and obstacles. Meet obstacles
The bay horizon turned on
its side makes an elegant Y
a wine glass full of cliff-
covered pine.
The old port is swarmingstorm it!
The docks, be-broken planks ramshackle stack
ships throw out their hempen ropes and miss.
A collision cant be avoided for long.