Louise said. No subtle cadences capturing birdnote
nor the melancholic “My Love
Is in a Light Attire.” She could speak well enough
but to sing was to vivisect the ear’s dear pleasure desired.
Ham suggested canasta
or a hike to a hillock. The other reminded
no night-over camping—Lydia was soundly allergic to that.
Charles Gordon proposed
a boat ride to a big, big lake and a stroll
in the Parc d’Avenir. They heard an April angelus tolling its sixes,
a sure sign that the winter demon was down.
It was now a matter of waiting
for the haughty naughty beguilement of warmth.
They were standing on the balcony when
Louise was tossed not a rose or two with flayed edges
but an entire bouquet of hibiscus (a horde of bishops
huddling at the heart of each). Below them, a boy sweeping—
sheep, sheep, sheep—looked up
and souffled Lydia a kiss. Oh, it would be a good day, wontn’t it?
Life flung riverward and on and on
the baby boat floating, spinning in the hope current,
someone singing “Sometimes a bun, sometimes only a biscuit.”