July 31, 2004

• From “Julian and Maddalo”

  So, as
  we rode, we talked; and the swift thought,
  Winging itself with laughter, lingered not,
  But flew from brain to brain,—such glee was ours,  
  Charged with light memories of remembered hours,
  None slow enough for sadness; till we came
  Homeward, which always makes the spirit tame.
  
  -Percy Shelley

  To the Glenhaven’send groves we ran hand-in-hand gravel jabbing bluenailed
  toes, waterlilies waiting ‘mid: large forest green leaves—among other things—looming,
  some about to come true and others too far off to tell. Promise seeped from
  every silkshirted sojourn, each cupped handful of faucetwater to slick back
  bangs and solve things shortterm, ‘til the next dry disaster and its own
  exasperated sigh, from every stubborn last half-inch of cotton that wouldn’t
  cling at mid-calf, or at least remain, like the ends of everything these days.
  Green’s all what I recall, the half-dead expanses jostled over in envied
  automobiles, a blinding flash of bright pink and carbonation, Clearly the first
  of first after first. Howmuchtwohundreddollarsis, how the butter melts in the
  middle and makes it worth the forty-five-more-minutes-meets-two-hours-from-now,
  the frustration that ought to be ineffable hitting hearts after a
  Searspurchased chair turns to reveal an intruder—all imparted while ankle-deep
  in a kind-of-fenced-in kelly color. Lush sometimes and not always expansive,
  defensiveness-tinged beginnings gave way to rusty wrapped palms and dayglo
  reptiles, haunted ottomans and imitation ivy, clumpy cardboard cheese and all
  that will matter is the presentation. Whirring blades invade downy folds,
  shatter sleep and dreams, induce staged sadness we’ll later wish we’d known
  wasn’t real then. Later we laugh about Dubai,
  knowingly; back then we rallied and rode waves anyway, we braided at the seat
  of an unused sewing machine to become like what we wanted, and now we Rallayyyy
  and nod and wonder what to wish for.

  Cool pastel porches have replaced concrete slabs, seeming sections, and vines
  wind above; we always say we’ll do that next time. Once taffyshut teeth meet
  hesitantly, unsalted newness relies on the flurry of tight tops that followed
  them for streetname-related laughter. Light on the dimpled spring’ssurface,
  stacked chairs wobblereaching popcorn-ceilinged ledges, mahogany, baroque lines
  imposing, singsong Maria-ing recalled as red, dark blue, wearing sailor
  suits—lights that I will harsh coils won’t replace; I will that fluorescent
  nothing threatens you.
  

  • 5:46 am
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