After hearing Fanny Howe and John Wieners

Waterstone’s, Boston, March ’98

past yellow shoes and red ones
        and what seems a reflection of a plane, a skyscraper, and a car —
        actually painted in glitter on the sidewalk —
 
and
 
driving over the narrow river,
        peach and white tornadoes of light in the dark blue water
pairs of headlights coming towards me, Bright Eyes
 
        a suffering yet in service of
        it’s not funny
        the men laughed anyway
        so I did — laughter being ‘catchy’ —
 
what’s this black of night
not hard-looking, not soft —
mushy with molecules
 
back to the flat of the mind
 
stop sign
street lights like lollipops
 
        branch’s blue shadow in snow, today’s long melting yard
 
“you always look so young”
said Fanny and I said
something tiny
but thought
“I’m immature”
would have been funny
 
I cared for aesthetics
so I kept falling,
in love with grace and cleverness
but in the development of an argument
I’ve learned recently
are
        juxtapositions of substance
 
melancholy’s going
can’t afford it —
approaching 50
affords an opportunity
like the last half of a vacation
to make the best of it