A
Color of the Sky
Windy
today and I feel less than brilliant,
driving
over the hills from work.
There
are the dark parts on the road
when
you pass through clumps of wood
and
the bright spots where you have a view of the ocean,
but
that doesn’t make the road an allegory.
I
should call Marie and apologize
for
being so boring at dinner last night,
but
can I really promise not to be that way again?
And
anyway, I’d rather watch the trees, tossing
in
what certainly looks like sexual arousal.
Otherwise
it’s spring, and everything looks frail;
the
sky is baby blue, and the just-unfurling leaves
are
full of infant chlorophyll,
the
very tint of inexperience.
Last
summer’s song is making a comeback on the radio,
and
on the highway overpass,
the
only metaphysical vandal in America has written
MEMORY
LOVES TIME
in
big black spraypaint letters,
which
makes us wonder if Time loves Memory back.
Last
night I dreamed of X again.
She’s
like a stain on my subconscious sheets.
Years
ago she penetrated me
but
though I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed,
I
never got her out,
but
now I’m glad.
What
I thought was an end turned out to be a middle.
What
I thought was a brick wall turned out to be a tunnel.
What
I thought was an injustice
turned
out to be a color of the sky.
Outside
the youth center, between the liquor store
and
the police station,
a
little dogwood tree is losing its mind;
overflowing
with blossomfoam,
like
a sudsy mug of beer;
like
a bride ripping off her clothes,
dropping
snow white petals to the ground in clouds,
so
Nature’s wastefulness seems quietly obscene.
It’s
been doing that all week:
making
beauty,
and
throwing it away,
and
making more.
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