.

wind whipping my face—my hair your face

      was it really that long or did you stand closer

      than memory allows? what about the trip back to town?

      sweet little things in my ears

      it’s the sports car through Paris

      or mandarin weather right on your sunny doorstep

      the half-worlds meet and make it up as they go

      first persons second persons third persons

      a few irresponsible demonstratives, movie flex perfect

      flip tail mad, the gown that hangs in here

      (tapping her head, right side) its versions

      of the same conversations we’re still stepping into

      tingling fingers five minutes into the wintertime dishes

      (real warmth) where’s my staircase? is the engine running?

      the light in your eyes the way your smile just beams

      upside the way you sing off-key

      down among the unmade beds the washing the cleaning up

      orange peel exploded tamarillo (the carpet the duvet)

      pulp, pips, play—still hear the cameras?

      Harry Ariadne, your footsteps pace mine

      you walk down the hall with me and laugh at absurdities

      this hush that the poet is writing again

      winged circuits flown by those anecdotal doves

      somebody lets out down near the waterfront each morning

      you can imagine the sight the whirring

      bicameral possibilities exploding everywhere

      she knows without looking in the mirror she’s wearing

      the dangerous face knows without looking at the tears in the gown

      that its roses and unicorns will go on precluding sleep

      and smooth getaways she walks out the door

      in her pocket there’s a small bright orange

       swimmers, dancers

Dear Heart

      dear heart it was a coast road

      long past lilac time and well out of town

      the sea out of sight and driving north

      in the far south the radio swelled

      nostalgia

      and I want you to know

      that I remember it all the time

      it was ‘just’ part of your afternoon repertoire

      a dance-floor pick-up

      kept on at you all those years the romance the real

      life dance we were brought in to share

      the sun and the son

      you were making it true with a late-fifties step

      up the coast into heaven

      and some memorable parties

      fishing trips

      carnivals

      a dog a truck a baby sister

      a walk to the swing bridge

      and back

      and more . . .

      then it was moving into town settling

      down and later the piano

      you were picking out Mancini arrangements

      Nat King Cole My Fair Lady and the theme

      from Mondo Cane

      you sang them into the woodwork

      and when it really was

      a table for one and a single rose

      that hard lost time

      I heard Errol Garner play I only

      have eyes for you in a winter house dancing

      with knots in my throat past midnight

      and your brave tra-la-la

      half a world away

      it’s a lonely thing to do

      and you couldn’t get used to the cold

      or the hole in the bed

      the silence after you sang out

      the songs that would never mean dancing again

      oh my sentimental mother

      you died

      and I saw you in each other’s arms again

      an hour from dawn

      just as it should have been

      my dear

      I took your rings and came back to the real

      life dance of these years

      a song by songs and it seems I don’t know all the words

      because you never did

      but

      here we are driving the coasts of our dreams and

      bending again in time

      over the precious cradle of the heart

Colloquy

      virgins plus curtains minus dots claret and celestial blue

      people still go to cottages in moody seaside weather

      to read for a week how will we do it now?

      when I go for walks words stalk along too

      I’ll be travelling mid-February and can’t guarantee a lucid mind

      what about a big table in a room with windows

      looking over the wild and wavy event?

      or good merganser fans unfolding folding thought out there

      one of these days we’ll tend to them

      those fair fictitious people the women

Oldest and Most Loyal American Friend

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      more to our liking—

      the idea of a winged victory

      headless to be sure

      but lucidly and in good humor

      she’ll answer our questions:

      when did the line begin

      to curve underwater like that?

      why are the roses (which aren’t

      even here) suddenly twisting

      into circles? why are we drawn

      to these figures? Samothrace

      you’ve vanished

      in your place, le juste milieu,

      Gertrude stalks

      the little lobsters of Perpignan

      replaces the bright water with

      a clear chablis she’ll drink

      them with tonight

      make a feast of tumult eat

      its flesh crack the golden shell