Mezzaluna. Michele LeggottЧитать онлайн книгу.
wind whipping my face—my hair your face
was it really that long or did you stand closer
than memory allows? what about the trip back to town?
sweet little things in my ears
it’s the sports car through Paris
or mandarin weather right on your sunny doorstep
the half-worlds meet and make it up as they go
first persons second persons third persons
a few irresponsible demonstratives, movie flex perfect
flip tail mad, the gown that hangs in here
(tapping her head, right side) its versions
of the same conversations we’re still stepping into
tingling fingers five minutes into the wintertime dishes
(real warmth) where’s my staircase? is the engine running?
the light in your eyes the way your smile just beams
upside the way you sing off-key
down among the unmade beds the washing the cleaning up
orange peel exploded tamarillo (the carpet the duvet)
pulp, pips, play—still hear the cameras?
Harry Ariadne, your footsteps pace mine
you walk down the hall with me and laugh at absurdities
this hush that the poet is writing again
winged circuits flown by those anecdotal doves
somebody lets out down near the waterfront each morning
you can imagine the sight the whirring
bicameral possibilities exploding everywhere
she knows without looking in the mirror she’s wearing
the dangerous face knows without looking at the tears in the gown
that its roses and unicorns will go on precluding sleep
and smooth getaways she walks out the door
in her pocket there’s a small bright orange
swimmers, dancers
Dear Heart
dear heart it was a coast road
long past lilac time and well out of town
the sea out of sight and driving north
in the far south the radio swelled
nostalgia
and I want you to know
that I remember it all the time
it was ‘just’ part of your afternoon repertoire
a dance-floor pick-up
kept on at you all those years the romance the real
life dance we were brought in to share
the sun and the son
you were making it true with a late-fifties step
up the coast into heaven
and some memorable parties
fishing trips
carnivals
a dog a truck a baby sister
a walk to the swing bridge
and back
and more . . .
then it was moving into town settling
down and later the piano
you were picking out Mancini arrangements
Nat King Cole My Fair Lady and the theme
from Mondo Cane
you sang them into the woodwork
and when it really was
a table for one and a single rose
that hard lost time
I heard Errol Garner play I only
have eyes for you in a winter house dancing
with knots in my throat past midnight
and your brave tra-la-la
half a world away
it’s a lonely thing to do
and you couldn’t get used to the cold
or the hole in the bed
the silence after you sang out
the songs that would never mean dancing again
oh my sentimental mother
you died
and I saw you in each other’s arms again
an hour from dawn
just as it should have been
my dear
I took your rings and came back to the real
life dance of these years
a song by songs and it seems I don’t know all the words
because you never did
but
here we are driving the coasts of our dreams and
bending again in time
over the precious cradle of the heart
Colloquy
virgins plus curtains minus dots claret and celestial blue
people still go to cottages in moody seaside weather
to read for a week how will we do it now?
when I go for walks words stalk along too
I’ll be travelling mid-February and can’t guarantee a lucid mind
what about a big table in a room with windows
looking over the wild and wavy event?
or good merganser fans unfolding folding thought out there
one of these days we’ll tend to them
those fair fictitious people the women
Oldest and Most Loyal American Friend
1
more to our liking—
the idea of a winged victory
headless to be sure
but lucidly and in good humor
she’ll answer our questions:
when did the line begin
to curve underwater like that?
why are the roses (which aren’t
even here) suddenly twisting
into circles? why are we drawn
to these figures? Samothrace
you’ve vanished
in your place, le juste milieu,
Gertrude stalks
the little lobsters of Perpignan
replaces the bright water with
a clear chablis she’ll drink
them with tonight
make a feast of tumult eat
its flesh crack the golden shell