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*                     *the deb party, of a certain wishful year

 

1

mile after mile:

come July

the noontime casts

a hot blank silence.

 

triangle-trees cut the blue light.

are we all alone?

 

I wish and wish beside you –

the gusts tug at your sleeves.

a dry path stretches

between the windbreaks.

 

2

in my father’s house are many rooms,

wide and narrow. this sleepy day

the poison oak crept in and out the window,

touching pure dreams and their flesh on pillows.

an earwig crawls, a star declines

 

on its passage down

to limbo,

following the spirits.

 

they will speak without words

to an ear outside sound –

 

the door in the sky is locked

with a key of fire.

 

3

shale rocks, dandelions, and we together

riding in a train – a lined long country.

how happy we shall be

with the man of many faces,

slurping tea

 

while this clack clack clack

slips with us like a shoe, in fine clemency

of downpours –

here are your cup and spoon, and napkin…

don’t spill now.

 

well, this weather hangs

and hangs upon us:

the blazing time’s thrice-blessed.

 

4

you, and I, and we, dearest,

constitute the bourgeoisie this evening.

bourgeoisie of daydreams:

in love, at least –

or in pipes and blouses, more imperatively.

 

these people whom we look upon serenely,

wishful for novelty,

compliment and bore us both, by turns –

and, by turns, are a mystery.

 

dolled-over faces, and the polished eyes

of china dolls, there…

rouge and lime-green, rounded:

glancing in this heat, this golden gravity

of candlesticks!

as the midnight narrows

into a shade, a lamp’s shade, brightening,

 

outside a chiming circulates

where hailstorms travel:

sliding wire-bell,

from the earth to the heavens –

but inside we are hot.

 

the table is spread

with colored tortes, pheasants.

mouths breathe fumes that dwell at the ceiling.

I think I will be made today

of sweet jellies and marmalades

while the rain keeps drifting

high above us.

 

but I’m afraid you’ve forgotten something after

dinner:

a voluptuary, lolling in lust, the broken bowl.

I’ll send her up through the dumbwaiter presently:

adieu, mademoiselle –

I’m shutting the door.

 

there was no dish could ever sate her:

the fleshpot in her elevator.

 

5

crayfish, rubies, swans, tillers and sterns…

these are the waters in the sky,

a bathtub overflowing.

a sailboat bobbles

and topples o’er the brim…

 

but never to worry

your pretty little head, sweet –

the gushing pools collect

in the place of peace.

 

shall I bring us another plate of canapés?

for while we wait

 

the cylinders of summer roll to us

in a bowed flood,

a water pulled by siphons –

uncertain as we whom we should love.

 

6

a line of old oaks

and an empty expanse –

where have we arrived?

I see you falling here

into a bed beside

the jasper-pillared palace –

yawning, alone,

 

asleep,

sucking candied

drops

all given by the courtesans,

fair-skinned and light:

a congeries described

 

of painted lips and crying eyes,

glad in their glossy sport

of sin.

 

7

white perfumes swim on high,

and hedges stir in the breeze.

 

a beach ball’s out

and splashes in the water.

bright towels and umbrellas line the pool.

 

a water strider skips, breaks

ripples of the drowning chlorine.

 

8

<<whoosh>>

so the springs of air

overturn the croquet game:

wickets, mallets, sandwiches

all blow away

into the looming cloud –

 

the summer hangs upon the sea

and the trains lag behind the weather.

past the lawn

our dark red ball is puffed gently

over the earth’s rim.

 

I might say that you are unhappy –

and yet not so much, really,

not very much to speak of.

 

so pardon us in time, then,

and I’ll pardon us as well,

passingly.

 

9

at the middle of the tableland

three boxes rest under a palm tree.

two contain macaroons and plums,

one is a casket.

 

horseflies and larks murmur

in the stringy leaves.

 

10

nothing in this place

come dry October.

but we are false stung, through and through,

waiting in the anteroom –

we gather our effects to go

 

and are out the door.

what say we have another drink, at home?

 

far away

a second hemisphere sends

showers and zephyrs our direction –

 

a crisp air, snatching caps, canes,

purses

 

into space, and past the rushing sky.

*

*

*

*

astrid 2

*

1

in the cerebrum the plateau is unkind.

one thinks of a votress, in her black dress –

the sepals curl, the bee creeps from the hive – 

pinning her hair in insouciance, singing: 

“view the wall of brick, the deluged citadel

of crocodiles and virgins.”

 

everywhere a boy looked was a valve of the earth,

white bluebells, a cold air spilling.

 

2

past the still months, and all things turn to air. 

our dates, our socials fall apart with time.

 

as I say, I am concerned

about the jackets and clouds –

I am much concerned these days; but never, ever mind. 

should we go into the dining room, right now?

 

a drizzling afternoon, then sunset.

our guests had dropsy, all of them;

they fell out of the whirlwind

as we played at bridge.

 

the holly shakes, the droplets spatter –

this poor rain of waters,

coiled in breeze.

 

I am decided tonight upon 

fine eyes in windows,

and a wand in the hand…

conversing gently,

 

these lovers in colorless chambers

fade away –

 

they are a portion of the painting.

 

3

above the land

long storms whistle; the tongues are drawing 

nectar in –

these fine eyes at windows.

 

our dinner friends and our dates disdain us.

it is a bother, don’t call them over.

it is peaceful, now:

 

an even clock, 

sweet phosphate in a glass. 

soon you’re bound to fall asleep upon 

this tablecloth 

 

from the light that gathers,

cruel and virtuous.

 

there is no one, these windows are empty.

 

4

under rays, a boy is swimming – 

swimming in and out the hour

by vases and columns:

here are the drowned aortas

of the citadel.

 

water gushes

up, down,

through and over

tunnels, aqueducts, canals – 

seeping sweetly towards

the orange sand, the hills.  

 

let’s shut the house – bland drafts slip in these days,

they pull at the flowers.

 

well, the guests are gone –

everyone from the list…

a swivel of a slender wrist,

and the beams above us die.

from the city of forms every soul has fled.

 

glowing, flitting,

grand angels of a hovering land

blow trumpets for a cradle:

 

the buttercups unfold, the holy auras flare

and fill the towers, push the stars out of heaven. 

 

we’ll sink into our beds, without a sound,

in small houses –

our heads that shall never turn,

eyes that shall never open. 

 

all lips sing

in the fanning night.

 

5

shall we speak of the south magnetic line? 

persons in glass spheres, the portholes’ blur, 

scudding and veering –

overhead, a lonesome voice resounds.

 

here comes the line of dames and fellows 

bearing over the path

a cherry in sweet amber bourbon,

filberts and raisins and walnuts in cakes. 

each fair head is circled in light –

 

but a fine face turns up its nose at them: 

the Lady’s soured on these luminaries 

and their subsets of fruits.

 

she is a figure in the painting.

 

6

walking home, we must pass by 

the holly and rain,

pools and crocodiles…

 

soundless

a shape soon follows us above.

*