 |
| Lucien Pissaro, 1916 |
Time Change in Florida #2
Sapped, yes. But not
finished. Not yet.
So what if I mostly live in
my head?
Who says I have to be out
running around
improving body income outgo
technical savvy?
The dizzy awe of a
Southwestern canyon at my feet,
a clean expanse of sunlit
snow, a seat at a small iron table
on a terrace near a bridge
spanning a shady canal, a few ducks. Yes. I do yearn,
but fuck that. The wizardry
of Greek goats on the cliffs,
the exquisite calm of Prince
Edward Island, conquests and seductions—
random delicious
recollections lively and reasonably true live on
in Whitmanesque abundance,
drifting, thundering, startling.
Come to my sunny room. We’ll
lie in my ancient bed,
sing German Lieder, dance the
pavane.
Come to my spacious room.
Help me get this right.
The Painter, the Actor, the Piano Player
1.
As fast as that I
wake to astonishing desire.
I’d met you just
once, but for them
(them the drained
students trying to relax)
you are the
stranger in the room,
(the room the
shabby basement cafeteria in the old Juilliard building).
I can summon the
flip of my belly as you stride to my table of dancers
(the room holds
its breath) enfold me, kiss me (sighs)
and I refill here and now with that first taste of delicious
knowing.
2.
A phone call about
a blind date who will meet me
on the steps of
the Metropolitan Museum of Art primes
me for the man who has picked such a place.
I’m early, filled
with notions.
From the top I
scan the city crowd, see you bound up
the proud staircase straight to me. How did you know?
Your talk’s all of
a failed audition for Antonioni’s “Zabriskie Point.”
At twenty-five
you’re too old, but still you buzz because the great director
has seen you now
and maybe... We walk south on 5th Avenue.
As we enter
Central Park at 72nd St., the next two
and a half years have begun.
3.
You arrive
thirty-five minutes late (the first time I forgive you).
I’d raced downtown
to my two rooms on 14th Street from Lincoln Center,
sweaty from ten
hours in dance studios, desperate to shampoo my oily itchy head. Cleaned up
seconds before your knock, I undo the police lock.
Your tweed jacket
white shirt curly wild red/brown hair round blue smart eyes tall skinny grace
punch me in the heart so that my chest contracts.
Did I gasp?
4.
A fast heavy rain lowered a bough of the too tall old rose bush.
One pink bloom is done for but the other holds its fat shape.
The greens outside my window quiver. My wild Florida garden
applauds the sky; thousands of leaves have had their fill. All over
is bright gray light. I’ve been working at my French writing desk
with its view like a painting. My brother and I have landed here together,
each single, each quiet.
A fast heavy rain lowered a bough of the too tall old rose bush.
One pink bloom is done for but the other holds its fat shape.
The greens outside my window quiver. My wild Florida garden
applauds the sky; thousands of leaves have had their fill. All over
is bright gray light. I’ve been working at my French writing desk
with its view like a painting. My brother and I have landed here together,
each single, each quiet.
I applaud my young
men. See us painted by Chagall.
Three times in
four years I stepped off the cliff to ride the currents.
While aloft I
danced, bounced, sailed, dove in winds, rains, heat and cold
like I’ve not
known since. Just turned eighteen, almost nineteen,
and twenty-one, I
flew over and through New York City
with you and you
and you. Whoosh!
Who pushed, who
pulled? No matter.
My hand, your
hands gripped tightly until one of us loosened, let go.
Ah, July’s fierce
sun is back, but the greens no longer thirst
and will not droop for hours.
-->
