Tuesday, September 20, 2022

The Walk Back from the Bank

Even the graffito has become light language.
All systems are here, now, as this one
Is done, gone, in the emulsifying reach
Of Luna X19.

To draw you a picture:
A bevy of mothers converse as they nurse
Their rainbow ones in late lilac sun
And pools ya-hoo to the barbecue gas,
Leaves dangling to extract the irrecoverable,
The irremediable being, prompted to oblivion
For the sake of the masterpiece
From the wool of the rule.

Mariner's Cove, so they've called it,
And now it's home, in numbers, to everyone 
That certain gray of blue mood
And window views on pelicans
And crows unnumbering
Our equations whole, the coiffed containers
And safety razors for the unkempt hordes 
Who stay here aquiver, tumescent, divorced.

The crew is at the door, their eyelash-lit car,
Readied for cleaning, the unalloyed
Domesticity pleasures, so now I must go
To fold shirts, scrape proteins, iron slacks,
Distribute the gas and the rivers, receive thanks 
From the vegetables for peeling their brains
Like any atrophied bride
Who sees the reward in the act:
Not the arch support or the crow racket.