As soon as they understood the molecular structure of water,
But for all its beauty, its sad lyrical tenderness, province of melancholy over which poetry has reigned since the first blind bard--can it be enough, now, the lyric? Can it be enough, the sad I singing its sad song in sad nature, the pastoral song, enough?
And yet the rain on the lake, the soft rain, the green lake, the brown swallows, lifting and diving, the world still beautiful, yet--
* * *
FRAGILE FISHES BROKEN OCEAN
Up the backside of Burlington, either side of the rails a treasure of illicit or
she picked words from a bag, laying them in order:
Frame of a bicycle somebody stole, twisted car parts, a condom--
of course it reflected her inner psyche--how depressed she had been.
In the pond floated brightly colored detergent bottles, bobbing like decoys in the
* * *
She kept returning to the poet's lyric, where she was as important as she'd ever be.
* * *
The old socialist spits at the poet's lyric.
Bullshit! calls out the black-brown-Jew, in the café where the poet is reading her
The children are so numbed by hunger they have no response to the poet's lyric.
The other poets sneer at the poet's lyric: the "I", how passé!
Whole revolutions breed and die, completely unchecked by the poet's lyric.
The young feminist refuses to go to the reading, in protest against the male- centric
The poet crumples up the poet's lyric: won't the boundaries of language ever be
That is not the point, said the Professor. It's that we want the pastoral to mean
As the environmentalist demanded pollution curbs to protect the frogs, the developer
And yet the rain on the lake, the soft rain, the green lake, the brown swallows, lifting and diving, the world still beautiful yet--
In the dream you were sick, you were bleeding. The young men and women criss-crossed around you, their white coats flapping, files in their hands. You skulked into corners, you hid in the closet, the dark blood trickling down your calf. And then the something, coming from between your legs.
You threw it out. You didn't want it. The interns came running. Lovingly they lifted it out of the can: Jellyfish, abortion, white-gum translucentó the deflated oceans and continents of the world.
Six monarch butterfly cocoons
You could feel their golden wings trembling.
You were alarmed. You felt infested.
In the downstairs bathroon of the family home,
You had wanted a change, didn't you?