from Memorial Day
Having lived so long -- as sure as tongues
how words go blank
as they are forming -- monaural, I think,
DAs and Balboas,
King Konk waxed and waved, the words
as they were,
like grandmothers, starting weeks of summer traveling,
so close, so perishable.
And who, Leroy, would be singing,
seeking favors of the coeds, putting his stylus
to some clef, running
the sands / the end-of-century streets
in his pegged trowsers,
teased by double-tracking
and by reverb?


Even as dreams, maybe, return when we awaken,
a language will haunt and ache,
matter in some lifetimes, and so many
barred sheets gone,
stories untold and lost
with so many
hustled duffles. I'm reaching this far, to you,
and from,
and afterward, marking these viney wraps
and the relying greenery,
the pond glow, reflecting pines and sycamores
and dogwoods, not so much
new as new refined / refinable, and sudden
with rose-scents now,
with this bullfrog's celloings
and still-more courtly