The Brooklyn Rail

1.

He showed me how in the house behind the trees.
There wasn’t much going on,
but maybe a radio somewhere off where
the others lounged by the pool watching
footprints fade on cement. I didn’t have my head
on straight, the way it’s supposed to be;
there’s a certain disposition, you make it look
easier than it is to understand the many awful
influences that freight each breath.

A scrap of cloud, tissue thin, mocks the blue
surrounding. My intuition tells me this &
that but mostly I’m unable to take
the hint, to move out from under layers of
narrative difficulty. Along these lines,
the terrible neutrality that doesn’t feel wrong
at first or maybe only does when I learn he keeps
a close account of the variation in hues
between originals & their reproductions.

You hear rumors about feverish process—broken
branches breaking into small sticks underfoot
are an apt comparison to current introspections.
The disturbing mess defeats any high purpose
attached to the daily special—two
for one, extra steamy. A bell gets hung
around his dirt-streaked neck & thus all is
as pretty as the graces turning on pinpoints.
It’s as useless being known as knowing how.

2.

There’s a motor inside each of them; they buzz
about, unnerving the bare assed
teenagers who don’t come inside just because
its getting dark. The tall one flings a yellow
cap to the ground, declares better not
push me before disappearing over the dune.
You can’t prove a negative but that receipt
pulled from your purse would help if it weren’t
smudged by your worried handling.

From this distance those cottages along the water
look like piano keys or maybe the “teeth
of a comb” is more likely to transmit the message
that thinking is as hard as you heard it is.
Why does each profanity have a species name
attached to its basket? Bows, too.
You trusted a genius you dated in high school &
presently you have prospects; so much more,
you are, than next in line at the water fountain.

Sand gets in everything—a whispering multitude.
You could be talking about the random dispersal
of seeds or the role of wind in keeping one
realm separate from the other. Holler away, kids.
Your voices go a-wandering in this sunshower,
brightening the copper-green lichen on the bark.
There’s harm enough that’s common to all.
Great strides, though, are being made so soon
we’ll impart our new mode of fondness to others.

3.

How subdue the losses & minor dangers,
the full array of mischief that blows in from afar?
Like the ice sheets that made this place, each
wave holds its shape for only so long; rise &
trembling fall, so they say. The bedroom’s
on the brink of a comfortable situation.
Our faint cheer erupting at some remove sounds
as if we are strangers to excessive sway.

Another choice morsel of happenstance would
complete the picture but none appears
to be more than merely available. That old absent
presence doesn’t quite work the charm
it did in philosophy class. Their heads occur here
& there above grass like empty spots that slow
down our ability to make conversation.
Who prevails, who recedes? The felt declines—
we dip within their steepening moods.

About what he said haven’t you heard enough?
That mistake combines too many
emotions with an ersatz sense of the fullness
of meaning. Leafless the surrounding trees, so you
can be seen out there, flagrantly busy with sleek
elaborations. Appearances aren’t yet in bloom,
the arbor not quite the threshold to selfless
intimacies as it was last summer. You’re always
asking why doesn’t this work, but did it ever?

4.

The two of them lying on towels taking pictures
of themselves occasions an awkward greeting.
Speculation about phrasing—to note how dust
stirring in late afternoon affects the rural vibe—goes
without saying among the mood’s initiates.
Something’s up out along the horizon; the gulls
are making a mad racket. Gentle pressure rejuvenates
our attention. A slight misjoining isn’t an issue;
clouds shrug, move on & weeds they decorously bow.

A little dreamy aren’t they, these boys? Gliding
down the path, careful not to step on scurrying
creatures, they throw stones or kick dirt
to sound an alarm. Same kind of heat spoiled
nearly all of the belle époque we planned.
You melted right into the chaise, doped up
like being in a dental chair, colors gone fractal
behind closed lids. Descriptions of heartache
painted on a sign outside the lobster hut.

Microdot barely gets us where we need to be.
Paper soaked through, the panache gone from
the typeface. The local gods churn out on-point
messaging keeping us abreast of plausible outcomes;
it’s not necessary that everyone finishes
reading at the same time. A lane so narrow our car
brushes against overgrown lilac bushes.
There’s a diving in, perceptions of motion
sparking at the periphery just before enclosure.

5.

Nothing in hand on the subject in dispute,
he allows his silence to be understood
as preface to a protagonist’s rich interiority.
Sophisticated legerdemain ensues. Strange turns
turning from berm to hollow, a pinkish haze
descends—mutable, amorphous, perhaps
menacing in a horror film kind of way.
But the equation grows increasingly unbalanced
despite strenuous attempts to… what?

Smoke from beyond the tree line indicates
opinions about the common good are changing.
The application requires reporting tidbits gleaned
from sunset conversations on the patio—even
the smallest grammatical slips might be momentous,
worthy of fresh, discerning eyes. Wheels need
to be ready to function; otherwise, your indolent
reign will come to the sluggardly end so long
expected, a mere few rotations from going flat.

Ethereal among more burdened souls—now
that’s the way to embark upon the evening frolic.
An empire of reasons not to watch that documentary
about telepathic fungi & yet it has emerged as
the leading candidate for bedtime viewing.
Intellection: a wobbly lamp revealing stains
left by the previous tenant. Behold its mocking fruits.
In daylight’s waning hours, his languorous eye
dilates at the least beckoning of appetite.

6.

A cookie won by a goody two-shoes for squeezing
as much out of desiring as can be squeezed.
Nothing hurts these penciled-in people—they flaunt
their imperviousness to deals gone bad, tiny screw-ups
that enlarge over time into what the manual
calls a stumbling block. Predestination figures in this
as an excuse, one that illuminates gray areas.
He was born, he tells his guru, to act with aplomb
even while enmeshed in the saving-the-farm plot.

Beeping means the door is ajar; the sound of a note
struck on a xylophone signals a difficult truth
about a man whose rocket flew to Planet X.
The new tech is topflight so they expect more than us
just setting watch fires on the highest dunes. Still,
disasters keep coming round, each one reminding
you what can-do spirit does in a fuck -you world.
I have a ticket to live on an island where everyone
owns an ocarina but the breeze does all the playing.

They say winter wasn't much this year;
didn't even, they say, kill what it's supposed to.
Slick green leaves stuck to the windshield & you
feel overpowered by this, the view quite
unintelligible. A drowsy piece of world hovers
between words like shine & smooth, but there's
nothing but yourself in sight. Gathered bits
of air might constitute survival when
all this helpful thinking turns to fire.

7.

An appealing way he has quoting facts & fables,
as well as the alternative title in ancient Greek.
Nobody believes a word of it but the gist
satisfies a need to hear more about what’s lost.
Rain must have come & gone; a tidy arrangement
of drops on the picnic table testifies to the event.
We learn to live with errors—our own,
the ones that arrive unbidden in the mail.
Someone out there wants to make beauty out of us.

It was cold & they were lazy & the long day
was giftless. A portion of fear could be in the mix
or more likely a general disinclination to behave
as if being free were possible. His mouth twists
unattractively to one side conveying such.
The sky grew crowded with elaborate clouds;
meanwhile, suspicions took hold that the alluring
view—translucent turquoise band offshore
where seals bobbed—was mere appeasement.

The main thing I was ashamed of was how little
I resisted the thoughts coming into my head.
Surrender, really, is the right word.
You measure the quantity of the monotonous &
figure out where you fit in on that scale.
Nothing occurs suddenly—no pools of warmth
amid the chill, no sightings of a pale, bare shoulder—
so maybe nothing occurs. Already the air
moves as if aware of its own drab insinuations.

8.

Back at the shack, questions were tossed around
in suggestive, flirtatious tones. What are those glints
of orange out there in the mud flats? Where’s the secret
berry patch? Who will play the Thunderer?
For a moment all was quiet as gnats seemed to pause,
contemplative in the light from the window.
He hung his pants on the hitchin’ post like a man
who made an honest living in this a mournful world.
Pollen settled on everything & again we swept.

When my buoyantly good spirits became the subject
of whispered innuendo I knew I was a success.
No one cares that you’ve read that Chekhov story
twenty or thirty times & can quote the part
about the ladies who are boring & banal.
Let’s try being objective, consider things in terms
of latitude & longitude or number of syllables.
Bodies aren’t much when it comes to waves—
they glisten in the swash then tumble over.

The shortcomings of this false Dmitry, numerous
as they are, fail to wear out the kids’ patience.
They’ve taken a serious attitude toward
an incomprehensible force & will stick with him
as long as the appetizers hold out. Days pass,
languages pass: imagine that all of us get treated
with caution owing to our unkempt hair.
We’re country dwellers awaiting the pleasure water
bequeaths to us in our most solitary hours.

9.

You can’t counter childish resistance to full immersion.
Lessons begin & end with sobs, an agitation
all out of proportion to the delight being sought.
A certain melancholy overwhelms, but that’s kind
of a mask, isn’t it? The sulking mien, arms hanging
useless in order to show a spirit drained
by repeated exhortation. Palms up! Lean further!
The mind hurries, ignores the pocked
condition of the road & then arrives—voluptuous.

A gang of sunny souls crouches beneath red
umbrellas, regiment of white caps in the distance—
that’s the postcard you want to send. Just enough
sensation to taunt those who didn’t make the ferry.
Perspective’s the trick: celestial orb or light
bulb, mist enshrouded island or bad prose.
I take a position where I can be seen from either side;
pretend to be a sentinel, a son of Sparta. So versatile
this sky, chasing one picture of itself after another.

My approach: quiet, gradual, & unselfconscious,
yet there wasn’t the wished-for surprise, fireworks
crackling overhead; instead, a domestic scene
that entailed disagreement about the proper
installation of a screen door in the house.
Tool of dissembling, this hand of his working
the buttons, then their consequence. Season now
unlocked, its shimmering flaws emerge, align
themselves alongside allowances of shade.