#45

I was there, at the table, in the shrill blue of God, and I said: "For nothing worth proven can be proven" or "That tender chain of flowers with a serpent's grasp." Oh, I love the place that I have loved before: A land where all things always seemed of quiet portion. One could strum one's fingers in the gray afternoon. Teleport the heart to prisons less stolid. As it poured, and paused, and poured.

Names for future poems: The Ingrate, Rachel, Superman. Like a pack of cards left idle. Too many, the August streets of metropols. And that fountain, where everything subsides.

Each calendar
Each afterwards

If the green earth blossoms, we will vault the paths of men. Be as Williams with his doctor's gear, mending the rinds and the porticos. Every virgin word asleep in cedarshade. Horrible, horrible Demeter, sunscreen'd and magnitude. A traitor to the pomegranate. The wren will call. The dogwood flower. The river will part into volumes. And I wood, and I still, and I hearing.

It was a siren's answer.
It spoke of drains, and smelts, and burgundy.