Almost time for the September Massacres.
William Wordsworth is wandering around
impressing the soft wax of his mind
in that 65% oblivious way
of a 24-year-old about to knock up
a counterrevolutionary in spite of
his republican essayistic chops
maybe because of his not-too-hot French
and being inside the brig of a young, male British body.
It’s not called English kissing after all.
Previously he’s been so moved by a tree,
a ghost story, a vagrant and long walks
but still he’s having trouble being born,
the revolutionaries sitting around on sacks
of raw flageolets, progenitors
of the beanbag chair. They are waiting
for Robespierre, regrettably. Later
the trial of Marie Antoinette
makes the poet in his birth canal nervous
even with those champagne glasses
molded from her breasts.
Somehow the Committee of Public Safety
accentuates her beauty, what
the Reign of Terror has in common
with a push-up bra.
Napoleon is getting ready,
he does not see his end in Elba
turning into a dessert.
Edmund Burke is getting ready.
Flower Power is getting ready
(skipping ahead).
The crystal doorknobs are wiped with disinfectant.
The bread is distributed to the battlements.
Outrage, conviction, bliss, dreadful outcome,
hope, disappointment, oh imagination, repeat.
Daffodils are getting ready in their dirt.
The Prelude is getting ready but not until
Wordsworth’s death, the dedication removed.