one bank with ages of purple candles,
and grape vines hide the tall trees
on the other, leaves dipped into the water,
motionless, shallow, and clear. . .
the pebbled bed curved and ridged,
colors folded by the imperceptible flow;
when, in the middle of all this, here
in the wide bend of the stream,
under such stillness it seems every
thing is finally where it wants to be,
all bafflement and loveliness; the still air
white, or blue above the haze, the same
gentle blue of windows scattered star-like
in a skyline whose edge is lost in the night;
when, high above the dull and humid street
on cumulus sheets as fresh and cool
and welcome as the scent of rain,
or even at night above the incinerator's
pall when you lick your fingertips
to snuff a candle and then pinch the flame
as you would choose any flowers to toss
on the black couch; the clothes and coins
spilled across the rug in a tide line,
coins cool under bare feet in the dark,
cool your thighs, a silver wish to mine,
when shadows and shadowy lights streak
the windows and flood, and sadness, like
the moon this time, can come near enough
to feel but not close enough to touch.
--Paul Violi, 1988
No comments:
Post a Comment