I said the glint was thistle. It turned out tin.
The place had a history of picnics.
Include the last sad hour, others left for home,
paper scattered, the long long angle of sun.
In games, children took turns dying
in the run-down barn, and whatever animal
roared in the woods that ringed the meadow,
in time he grew tame, his roar was part of the play.
And what would it matter now if I found it,
was reassured it all happened once, even
the women who, given these years, I’m convinced
I invented. Or was that earlier, in snow
where I’d fallen and one was smiling above me
saying her name: Laurie Roy? That can’t be.
I used to remember everything that happened
plain as the love on her face. Now it mixes
and fades. A jungle. A blistering day
in the desert. Typhoon. The Taranto docks.
Grim G.I.’s on the ship sailing west.
If I say thistle and the glint is tin
and picnics never happened, you can believe
something in me is modern. I am no longer
always the last to leave. When I find that meadow
I love and drive off certain some places remain,
I take stock of the light. You can believe the dark
on its way and the durable women
who hover ahead of your car and pilot you home.