The windows were open and the
morning air was, by the smell of lilac
and some darker flowering shrub,
filled with the brown and chirping
trills of birds. As they are if you could
have nothing but quiet and shouting.
Arts, also, are links. I picture an
idea at the moment I come to it, our collision. Once for a
time, anyone might have been luck's child. Even rain didn't
spoil the barbecue, in the backyard behind a polished traffic,
through a landscape, along a shore. Freedom then, liberation
later. She came to babysit for us in those troubled years directly from
the riots, and she said that she dreamed of the day when she would gun
down
everyone in the financial district. That single telephone is only one hair
on the brontosaurus. The coffee drinkers answered ecstatically. If your
dog stays out of the room, you get the fleas. In the lull, activity drops.
I'm seldom in my dreams without my children. My daughter told me that at
some time in school she had learned to think of a poet as a person seated
on an iceberg and melting through it. It is a poetry of certainty. In the
distance, down the street, the practicing soprano belts the breeze. As for
we who "love to be astonished," money makes money, luck makes luck. Moves
forward, drives on. Class background not landscape--still here and there
in
1969 I could feel the scope of collectivity. It was the present time for a
little while, and not so new as we thought then, the present always after
war. Ever since it has been hard for me to share my time. yellow of that
sad room was again the yellow of naps, where she waited, restless,
faithless, for more days. They say that the alternative for the
bourgeoisie was gullibility. Call it water and dogs. Reason looks for two,
then arranges it from there. But can one imagine a madman in love.
Goodbye; enough that was good. There was a pause, a rose, something on
paper. I may balk but I won't recede. Because desire is always
embarrassing. At the beach, with a fresh flush. The child looks out. The
berries are kept in the brambles, on wires on reserve for the birds. At a
distance, the sun is small. There was no proper Christmas after he died.
That triumphant blizzard had brought the city to its knees. I am a
stranger to the little girl I was, and more--more strange. But many facts
about a life should be left out, they are easily replaced. One sits in a
cloven space. Patterns promote an outward likeness, between little white
silences. The big trees catch all the moisture from what seems like a dry
night. Reflections don't make shade, but shadows are, and do. In order to
understand the nature of the collision, one must know something of the
nature of the motions involved--that is, a history. He looked at me and
smiled and did not look away, and thus a friendship became erotic. Luck
was rid of its clover.
The windows were open and the
morning air was, by the smell of lilac
and some darker flowering shrub,
filled with the brown and chirping
trills of birds. As they are if you could
have nothing but quiet and shouting.
Arts, also, are links. I picture an
idea at the moment I come to it, our collision. Once for a
time, anyone might have been luck's child. Even rain didn't
spoil the barbecue, in the backyard behind a polished traffic,
through a landscape, along a shore. Freedom then, liberation
later. She came to babysit for us in those troubled years directly from
the riots, and she said that she dreamed of the day when she would gun
down
everyone in the financial district. That single telephone is only one hair
on the brontosaurus. The coffee drinkers answered ecstatically. If your
dog stays out of the room, you get the fleas. In the lull, activity drops.
I'm seldom in my dreams without my children. My daughter told me that at
some time in school she had learned to think of a poet as a person seated
on an iceberg and melting through it. It is a poetry of certainty. In the
distance, down the street, the practicing soprano belts the breeze. As for
we who "love to be astonished," money makes money, luck makes luck. Moves
forward, drives on. Class background not landscape--still here and there
in
1969 I could feel the scope of collectivity. It was the present time for a
little while, and not so new as we thought then, the present always after
war. Ever since it has been hard for me to share my time. yellow of that
sad room was again the yellow of naps, where she waited, restless,
faithless, for more days. They say that the alternative for the
bourgeoisie was gullibility. Call it water and dogs. Reason looks for two,
then arranges it from there. But can one imagine a madman in love.
Goodbye; enough that was good. There was a pause, a rose, something on
paper. I may balk but I won't recede. Because desire is always
embarrassing. At the beach, with a fresh flush. The child looks out. The
berries are kept in the brambles, on wires on reserve for the birds. At a
distance, the sun is small. There was no proper Christmas after he died.
That triumphant blizzard had brought the city to its knees. I am a
stranger to the little girl I was, and more--more strange. But many facts
about a life should be left out, they are easily replaced. One sits in a
cloven space. Patterns promote an outward likeness, between little white
silences. The big trees catch all the moisture from what seems like a dry
night. Reflections don't make shade, but shadows are, and do. In order to
understand the nature of the collision, one must know something of the
nature of the motions involved--that is, a history. He looked at me and
smiled and did not look away, and thus a friendship became erotic. Luck
was rid of its clover.