Sunday, August 1, 2010

69. The Taste of the Evening

Night the color of armagnac
and the scent in my hand and hers,
or it may be darkened maples after
a sunset, and the rococo clouds,
which you must also see
over the wide Atlantic leading
back to where we haven’t come.

Eyes, a kind of heart,
when they see, how they pump
through us what we need
to survive. Beauty is an easy word
like pebble, but you cannot
hold it in place, even if you can
see it. Ink into fibers, page white
where left untouched, the flat plane
changed by liquid seeping
into place. Or canvas of letter
and color, the shape of a thought
must be whatever we will see,
we will allow ourselves
to see.

Tongue the scent
of armagnac so my breath becomes
a dark sweet brown. I can taste
the night, like sweat, like air,
like heat out of water or the sweet warm
breath against an ear or the nose.
We take it in to be, experience
to surfeit, that we might surface
above it, later, to think it
in a certain way out
to bring it back in,
and then to be.

Imagine yourself surrounded
by a view
of the sky of the sea of a life
collected around you, more
experience in the small space
of a penthouse than one lifetime
could ever manage to succumb to,
yet you succumb. Could you make sense
of it? Draw it all in? Or do you
see yourself as the custodian
of a universe you cannot control?

We all are.

Fingers tingle with the taste
of armagac. I can almost feel
the blood in my left hand
buzzing through. It is a brown
blood, moving blood, and the night
is brown through a small breeze that rustles
the trees, which seem to sway
away
then back. The rain that falls
is so delicate
that each tiny raindrop that hits
a cheek
feels like the least touch
of a kiss.

We see but
we don’t. The world
runs before us,
story after story,
most forgotten, even if
we once loved them, a certain
stuffed animal, its color washed away
save in its underarms, now has
no name. Everyone we knew
slowly disappears because the reel
just rolls. So much
to remember, so much to take in
one more time, and we will say,
“It’s beautiful,” and be amazed
at what we had forgotten, the shape
of letters in ink and paint,
the shape of dreams,

formless
but encompassing.

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