Astringent green,
a harbor of sighs.
Tinder, a dory.
Think Winslow Homer,
filled with foreboding,
Now, Voyager.
But life is not the movies.
Nor is its pictures
a resolute pondering.
I’ve never fainted on this burgundy,
not just so across the moth wings
the Persian rug thins.
I have not gone off to battle,
no immortal in lime, the sea air
off the cost near Dorchester.
It is not the same music,
rue, regret and fistfighting,
estranged dialogue—
where is a very attractive
and overcoming hope? My sacrifice?
Where is it, if it is not
my every, singlet,
my everyday?
It’s the pin stiff of wheat,
that takes me to the sprinkle of anise,
and salt everything like March flaking snow.
Let’s eat brooktrout and make stories
by the row-full, let’s now go,
I can tell a fine one,
one about horses, a silvery montage,
once taken to the light,
and truncated abruptly
as life.
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