on fire
anticipation of course
Valhalla bacon Lemon Creek Lodge and the cheapie off the window
in New Denver
the map in the head with its unsuspected throughroads
lakes he was changed on the hood of the car in front of
just like, we say and didn’t the time fly
the last stanza almost doesn’t make it
leaps the rising gangplank longlegged pigheaded pleased
to be on board
enjoys the trip the weather the drift into the other end
the new menu will keep
five minutes creased already it rides in a back pocket
reading itself for signs of
his sleeping cheek
Garbo in a Gown
it’s been a pretty ordinary day
I never saw you look like that before
what bit of brilliance gets its start standing in a fruit bowl?
the play should peel tragedy like an orange
she said, and squirt you in the eye
look at me like that
or explode tamarillos under your feet—a little bit of rubbish
it’s not a theory it’s a story
I got up this morning in the dark and heard the cameras
your eyes your eyes—
laughlines, remember?
ran the movie mid-afternoon it left me aching
looked at the moon high up where ice was cracking unseeable stars
ran after you through snow for the kiss
the one of course that blows it all apart—
was that the deeply satisfying meaning of the white dress?
laugh and cry and don’t sleep she said
it went away—it never went away—it was never real—here it is now
sailing the strait straight out of a sunshine breakfast
persevering, wind whipping my face—my hair your face
was it really that long or did you stand closer
than memory allows? what about the trip back to town?
sweet little things in my ears
it’s the sports car through Paris
or mandarin weather right on your sunny doorstep
the half-worlds meet and make it up as they go
first persons second persons third persons
a few irresponsible demonstratives, movie flex perfect
flip tail mad, the gown that hangs in here
(tapping her head, right side) its versions
of the same conversations we’re still stepping into
tingling fingers five minutes into the wintertime dishes
(real warmth) where’s my staircase? is the engine running?
the light in your eyes the way your smile just beams
upside the way you sing off-key
down among the unmade beds the washing the cleaning up
orange peel exploded tamarillo (the carpet the duvet)
pulp, pips, play—still hear the cameras?
Harry Ariadne, your footsteps pace mine
you walk down the hall with me and laugh at absurdities
this hush that the poet is writing again
winged circuits flown by those anecdotal doves
somebody lets out down near the waterfront each morning
you can imagine the sight the whirring
bicameral possibilities exploding everywhere
she knows without looking in the mirror she’s wearing
the dangerous face knows without looking at the tears in the gown
that its roses and unicorns will go on precluding sleep
and smooth getaways she walks out the door
in her pocket there’s a small bright orange
swimmers, dancers
Dear Heart
dear heart it was a coast road
long past lilac time and well out of town
the sea out of sight and driving north
in the far south the radio swelled
nostalgia
and I want you to know
that I remember it all the time
it was ‘just’ part of your afternoon repertoire
a dance-floor pick-up
kept on at you all those years the romance the real
life dance we were brought in to share
the sun and the son
you were making it true with a late-fifties step
up the coast into heaven
and some memorable parties
fishing trips
carnivals
a dog a truck a baby sister
a walk to the swing bridge
and back
and more . . .
then
