page 208

Here and There

Perhaps not real head and real wall this time.

After the endless season of condolences,
come to to the sound of the neighbour muttering
what a boring dulcimer that was.

Our hero is burning the sheaves of shorthand,
asked and answered and oyez and so forth,
letting the estimable elders down.

The river's becoming a torrent of blossoms.

The hands wish to be read their rights again.

Perhaps it's time to think of savings, press
the pansies in the atlas, wet the thread
to take arms against the needle's tricky eye.

Bequeathed to our bodies, a decent descent.

Our hearts are teething. Our friends won't let us
drive them on the highways anymore.

More terror in a meanwhile or a yet?

We say too much until the words dissolve,
a city of girls wearing white in the rain.