Where once I hummed like a metropolis, after I saw the bodies there was this feeling of living in a foreign country, heated and sealed like a humid summer day, one door away, the one blown off, and in the middle of the bridge -- where we put it -- two huts painted green. My eyes. My mind wasn't normal, the sacrifice grew bigger because we feared admitting it, like having a husband for a minute. Why that feeling has vanished I don't know. It was a small photograph. I suppose that makes us every reason to start with. The future is a gesture that stimulates the central nervous system -- a new lyricism -- as much theater as you or me, as once public TV was our projection, now with an instant's notice we are each other's project. Among the few we one day came home bare to sit by the brazier until the muddy smell and shell shrunk in a classic calm. Every time we stand up it seems a toy boat tips to the left. -- I've been waiting for you. -- I'm always floating toward that crooked smile on your face. Will you be jealous if I tell you about this valley, about being older, more dead, clearer in memory? Our brakes squeal without looking at the accident. It's not as if lying in an open hydrocarbon -- the only really feminine thing in my life -- replaces several years in the life of a city. Cities end like rivers running onto sand. Our river -- the umbilical out of the valley -- is a copper wire. On waking, the fuse is irretrievably lit. Before chronic electricity, we were the ones who loved the sun most -- now with the last bridge secured to a dot, the August moon, everyone's amphetamine is a complex intent. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A PRAYER TO THE WIND by THOMAS CAREW THE HILL WIFE: THE IMPULSE by ROBERT FROST VARIATIONS ON SAPPHO: 35 by KATHERINE HARRIS BRADLEY MERCHANT ADVENTURERS (WITH ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO SIMEON STRUNSKY) by BERTON BRALEY BACH'S ORGAN WORKS by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN |