Collecte Works (18 page)

breakable from the shelves of Marianne Moore.

On Stevens' fictive sibilant hibiscus flower

I'd poise myself, a cuckoo, flamingo-pink.

I'd plunge the depths with Zukofsky

and all that means—stirred earth,

cut sky, organ-sounding, resounding

anew, anew.

I'd prick the sand in cunning, lean,

Cummings irony, a little drunk dead sober.

Man, that walk down the beach!

I'd sit on a quiet fence

and sing a quiet thing: sincere, sincere.

And that would be Reznikoff.

High, lovely, light,

the Easter cake was beaten

electrically and eaten

down. Cousins, good night.

Child at your mountain-height—

your cello and bow in Easter's

high, lovely, light,

climb this one, tone feaster:

What eggs them on to bite

a frosted muff, to sneeze on,

sleep? To what season

are they tuned tight,

high, lovely, light?

Letter from Paul

It is yes with a lyre, ax and shovel

and snowman falling down.

This is my mother's birthday.

“Don't buy me a present”—what a sound—

                      “don't

we can't afford it.” Selfish of her.

And when Mozart was five

                                   just plain 5

how proud his father was

that his son had played

                             every single note.

Two old men—

one proposed they live together

take turns cooking, washing dishes

they were both alone.

His friend: “Our way of living

is so different:

                    you spit

                    I don't spit.”

Paul, hello

        what do you know

Goodbye

          why

So this was I

in my framed

young aloofness

unsuspecting

               what I filled

eager to remain

a smooth blonde cool

effect of light

an undiffused good take,

              a girl

              who couldn't bake

How I wish

I had someone to give

this pretty thing to

who'd keep it—

                something of me

                would shape

Am I real way out in space

asked Paul, then you see—

they rave to me of contests.

Compete, they say—my violin—

with tap-dance-acrobatics.

The winner plays the floor

with his feet.

On a row of cabins

next my home

Instead of shaded here

birds flying through leaves

I face this loud uncovering

of griefs.

What irony that I

with views verdant like the folk

should be the one

to go.

In moonlight lies

           the river passing—

it's not quiet

           and it's not laughing.

I'm not young

           and I'm not free

but I've a house of my own

           by a willow tree.

The cabin door flew open

                       the woman fell out

it is not known whether

                       she fell on land or sea

the man's grave

grave face

who were they

undoubtedly they knew tender moments

between sex and well-dressed courtesy—

men are tender with women

not passion-violent

when they are happy in general

and she-impossible to be grateful

without showing it

before the earth fell away

that they went out on Sunday to see.

The elegant office girl

is power-rigged.

She carries her nylon hard-pointed

breast uplift

like parachutes

half-pulled.

At night collapse occurs

among new flowered rugs

replacing last year's plain,

muskrat stole,

parakeets