Sometimes I’m back in that city
in its/ not my/ autumn
crossing a white bridge
over a dun-green river
eating shellfish with young poets
under the wrought-iron roof of the great market
drinking with the dead poet’s friend
to music struck
from odd small instruments
walking arm in arm with the cinematographer
through the whitelight gardens of Villa Grimaldi
earth and air stretched
to splitting still
his question:
have you ever been in a place like this?
No bad dreams. Night, the bed, the faint clockface.
No bad dreams. Her arm or leg or hair.
No bad dreams. A wheelchair unit screaming
off the block. No bad dreams. Pouches of blood: red cells,
plasma. Not here. No, none. Not yet.
—camera out of focus delirium swims
across the lens Don’t get me wrong I’m not
critiquing your direction
but I was there saw what you didn’t
take the care
you didn’t first of yourself then
of the child Don’t get me wrong I’m on
your side but standing off
where it rains not on the set where it’s
not raining yet
take three
What’s suffered in laughter in aroused afternoons
in nightly yearlong back-to-back
wandering each others’ nerves and pulses
O changing love that doesn’t change
A chair with truth’s coat of arms
A murderous code of manners
A silver cocktail reflecting a tiny severed hand
A small bird stuffed with print and roasted
A row of Lucite chessmen filled with shaving lotion
A bloodred valentine to power
A watered-silk innocence
A microwaved foie gras
A dry-ice carrier for conscience donations
A used set of satin sheets folded to go
A box at the opera of suffering
A fellowship at the villa, all expenses
A Caterpillar’s tracks gashing the environment
A bad day for students of the environment
A breakdown of the blending machine
A rush to put it in order
A song in the chapel a speech a press release
drive-ins
where romance always was
an after-dark phenomenon
lie crazed and still
great panoramas lost to air
this time this site of power shall pass
and we remain or not but not remain
as now we think we are
for J.J.
when we are shaken out to the last vestige
when history is done with us
when our late grains glitter
salt swept into shadow
indignant and importunate strife-fractured crystals
will it matter if our tenderness (our solidarity)
abides in residue
long as there’s tenderness and solidarity
Could the tempos and attunements of my voice
in a poem or yours or yours and mine
in telephonic high hilarity
cresting above some stupefied inanity
be more than personal
(and—as you once said—what’s wrong with that?)
2002–2003