My Time Among the Swells

In the tacit light of a jejune June evening,

swallows flit and curl, the little frogs clicking

desire at one another in the cattails. Gabardines

and high cheekbones assess their own

and only tender merits. Contrasty waiters pass

superior comestibles; the crowd shifts comfortably

from foot to foot. God look kindly on this man

and this woman, for richer or for less rich, till

death, et cetera. Fireflies light like sparks.

The gaze of the Lord, straight as a gun-barrel,

so we imagine. But my God is a lonesome

and melancholy God; just above my ankles,

my creases’ crisp breaks correct themselves.

Have another drink. You’ll like yourself more.

O first among equals, delible as memory,

indelible as cloud: imagine an ideal world,

its people’s lives like ours, mannered, but more

spontaneous, and fuller of delight. Marriage material

out on the stroll, because, hey, you never know.

For reasons known only to themselves, couples splinter

off into bad musical dusk; someone tells a joke,

softly, someone laughs a little too long. A trickle

of voices threads its way along the stair. Sleek words.

Indifference is what the world says, and loud

in its enormous voice; in full throat, a barred owl

calls its audibles. In the poem that’s happening now:

and now: I am impeccable, gleaming. I understand

everything, tonight. Inviting sorrow, I want what’s here.

Our thoughts are behaviors; they continue in our absence.

Imagined, like the future, and over-toned the orange

of midsummer, a lot depending on a lot, the drawn thrum

of evening’s bees, alive and in that golden hour . . .