Golden Fruits, Golden Isle
When I read the sealight I feel sick
and like to think of it, if it were happening now,
how would it be organized, and that it could,
a lack of movement making movement possible,
and a pure fantasy in the present,
and nowhere else, like a configuration
of waves and clouds in the hands
of a skilled maker, turning the wood heíd been saving
for years into a vibration between sleep
and the swimsuit.
Like many sweet things it had appeared rotten.
It offered less response than a rat which left you
that day Greece filled with horror and forced
to retreat to the portable shelter filled with old
magazines, happy to be alone in the period
between the birth and the death,
the most memorable in the history of the world.
The ruins of the new days of summer
obscurely suggest the whole fragment,
the grandeur and perfection of the life,
and the wind called upon to move it.
The tractor on a collection of concrete blocks
and scraps of wood seems more poised than ever.
Thinning peaches, invisible in the sense the peach tree canít see us,
answer this need in the child to wait
to do the thing it isnít capable of,
and in that sense will never be
the dark and extravagant fiction of a beach
that masqueraded as an island, a woman
in dubious relation to her husbandóshe sent him
inland, a few feetóoffering the dull and twitching feet
to the sea, square and perfect, which answered the individual
with the system and the sequence that allowed it
into all her variations.
The name, lacking an object, completes it.
Famously, the blue cloud dissolved into the sky while you were speaking.
The umbrellas became skeletal after the storm repelled us.
A day of perfect balance,
that had to be caused by something,
the sun, that old pun, in a moment moving
neither closer away nor further,
was again its own antecedent,
the genuine secret by which you meant
the one that can only be kept, until death releases
the precedent of terraces, small grapes from a young vine,
dark and viscous, taken through the diamond
of a chain link fence into the mouthís triangle,
beside a steep path to the Mediterranean,
the one sea one went further into the world to get to.
Not Dead, Not Dream, Not Poem, Not Faggot
Dream from the middle of the night I was supposed to write, where are you?
Reggie Clark who wore his knitted hat and head inside and outside also,
who was always late, taught a strange geometry, came to homeroom from the window,
taught foul shots all follow through and saying, like a faggot, no tension, knowing nothing,
as he put it, what survives of misunderstanding understood and remembered as mistaken
in a dream that canít be love, that canít write, because the not dead beloved,
ghost of two weeks, ten years, two lives, or how many
wooden afternoons canít hold a pen to the air to the one in Hades
arms pass through and listen to harder,
exactly, more, because they are returning to themselves already,
as the comicís fake kiss aims his back at the viewer, who laughs later, and later
waking from a dream to the opened oven smell of it, warm from that
and formed, and then its apprehension, to lie awake and think about money
not paid, after thinking the poem not written, to loaf and think
that love isnít love that wants its money, the poem isnít the poem not written,
that the foul shots got better late, alone, not mattering, no man or hat or faggot
in that motion, except as a memory, a misunderstanding understood
in the wrong word and all lost time from that time not written
contained wrongly but contained into a motion knowing nothing, like all poems,
and all poems not written,
Reggie Clark and all the not dead my beloveds?
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