Saturday, June 08, 2013

Apple Cider or Some Kind of Vinegar

I am the poet who died
inside you, although
my world is green and close
at hand.  I am who you killed
sometime in ‘93
as the hot Phoenix sun
cast itself long into
the bright day--you were
alone and the only thing
left for me was to die.
I am the poet who didn't
drown at the pool.  I was
no fool was I to fall in love away
from you, alone and sighing
for release.  The was no error
there in the hot light, the dry
ugly city surrounding us like
dead rocks--it was a colony
for the insane, I swear, and
driving by the hospital scared
me, at the end.  That you
would leave me there. I knew not
what powers, what unreason
kept me at your side for so long.
So when you killed me
I fell into the marihuana haze
of Eastern America like a leaf
falling from an oak in autumn.
Of the distant highways
I've traversed, of the stony shore or
the delights of heavy winter
snow,  you’ll live in me, a cold
ghost who I couldn’t banish
for my shame is gone and I see
nothing but the darkest of skies
ahead of me, there in the closing
distance where we'll all fall down,
 letting time overtake us
in his big red ‘67 GTO--
we’ll have no place to go,
and I’ll watch my children from
his back seat, as they build
their own impossible cities
along this road where there
was never anything to begin with.
There’s a poet dying in me.
Now.  In the clearest spring
air.   My body, O my body's
made of glass.  The mind
wanders to its end, the rustling in the trees
awakens in me things I've never seen--
the silent white window frames
of the neighbor's home in twilight
become absurd portals to my existence
out here in the suburbs
where summer advances
whether I like it or not.

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