All such gestures may be inventions of nostalgia,
ways of edging a tea-saucer future forward,
poised perilously on an ormolu table’s brink.
We glance at ourselves with plaster cables strung
over cheeks, snoozing the forest’s alarm, turning
to a charmed gouache with oblivious sentiment.
Asymmetrical styles wake up asserting their charm,
a ridged wrist-flick of completion. So a man leaves
a theatre, dreams aloud his bowtie mate, fashioning
a virile something-or-another. It begins a rain droplet,
a sedge: something full of oblong blisses, remote as
dovetails, pitter-patters mute inside till we create
some sound like mice-feet brushing panels overhead
tiny destructions of mental logicarcane dispatches
of plumbing, some numb hoped-for apprenticeship,
which can be soothing. You get dizzy near the furnace.
Stroll the museum. Object to a plant that’s poppy.
Soda, lima beans, crustacean provinces, oleander:
these menace and collude, while a billowy couple slims
darkly, adjusting elbows, arguing incident & accident.
I walk into a timely exhibitan exhibit “On the Future”;
its goofy magentas have leashes with price tags. And you
pause, and stare at a corner that’s not part of the show,
imagining a text to scroll out its full eye-deployment,
some journey committing you to take flight, go home,
redo woodwinds. There are no rewards until a shepherd,
wandering the park with saddlebag makeup, nods at you.
“I choose you,” we wish to say in a terrain of love-making.
What happens instead to this blighted sugarcane? These
volumes and preoccupationsour old feline senescence
like the agile way creatures paw preeningly when you know
the animating spirit’s blunt and pleading. I can’t pretend
it’s my shift. I picture a saw, a musical abacus which will
note out and notch my life one day soon when I have one.
I’ll retire to the country. Heirlooms of things that flaked
from meinterests, partners, tissueswill be amassed
in a jar, held in a darkness scrubbed clean from dewy grass.
Skyward, a zeppelin will set imaginary pivots. We’ll outwear
ourselves, tossing off bodies in the manner Michelangelo
enjoyed it, surely. And at evening, when half-serious things idle,
grow meaningful, those of us who can massage mâché thighs
and partake of forthcoming cuts, edits, sartorial plans, will
be asked to a bake-a-thon. Tenable though truant, the sun
won’t mind. A rhyme of raisins laid out on your flowery
skirt will do or have tothe air almost a mid-harbor air.
The player will show in this paragraph