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Tuesday, April 24, 2007

the summer comes caked with blue jewel pools.
your garden hose spills for days until the yard is a bowl
where you hang, supine and planet-faced, weighing
less than in space. The summer rises runed,
taroted, charted in the humming still of June rooms:
I say we go away. Where's the fresh water in this place?
Our cards are played, our fortunes made until
the sky glows orange-white from plaza lights and the
neighbors are Byzantines and Gypsies.
Memphis spreads out slow from its winter clench.
Arms unfold, the benches creak and crow in fronts,
new-mowed grass tells its headless story.
I'm picking up once the moon is limestone.
I'm leaving for the quarry.
Sorry, white legs. Sorry, coat pegs,
The days are hot for the taking.
The black spade of rot iron doesn't shape so menacing.
I need these calluses for climbing, goat curses for skirt lining,
chicken magic for my mancala eyes, shining.

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How beautiful. Would it be wrong of me to guess this was influenced somewhat by the F. Scott style?
haha- I didn't notice but now that I read it you're completely right. I like the F. Scott Fitzgerald style. I'm reading that book you got me--octavian nothing--now
ridiculously accurate description of memphis turning into summer... i love the images, of course of course. the last line and a half is a little too purposefully vague for my taste, which leaves the ending a little weak. but otherwise, beautiful.
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