If a time were a place then this
would be utopia. We might be
married, our cottage with its grass
roof keeps the weathers audible
but in their place. Our place
is daily and each other,
where flowers can be soot-dark
as the throw-pillows of charcoal
briquet on which we Sunday-grill
our garden’s skewered harvest:
the sexy tomatoes in their sheaths
of olive oil, their oregano trinkets,
the cavernous peppers, hollow
and hopeful, and the yellow squash
like suns within suns and blooming.
2 comments:
Stop me if you've heard this one.
from "Garbage" by AR Ammons
"...assemblages of incident on a string, emblems of
the shapes of actions, the essential displaying
the newspapery: sometimes, just when you think
the spirit is going to rise, something else does:
life, life is like a poem: the moment it
begins, it begins to end: the tension this
establishes makes every move and moment, every
gap and stumble, every glide and rise significant"
Have heard it but won't stop you or Archie ever because it can't be heard or said or chanted enough.
Thanks for reminding me.
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