Enormous purple dawns, the water
was always rising, was always
soft and optional and always soft
to enter. I suppose therefore
we entered, believing those dawns
would hardly happen often, not
wanting to let our lives make do.
Of course the world stood still
and all the stars popped out
like baby light bulbs. Of course
the moon would usually come out
and thus improve the view.
Tell everyone, we said. Sometimes
at night I turned to you,
we turned the page, and there was
the yellow forest once again, the corridors
of yellow trees, the bright birds
roaming down. They tossed their frozen
rags towards the sky and still
got stuck in the marmalade, still found
they made the usual passage.
from aspiration to regret.
Their feathers floated down
all over town. Indeed the afterlife
was all blue sky
with enormous purple
mornings. The flowers and clouds
which always seemed to sweep
the afternoons were merely
part of the local colour, as also
were the poets, who worked so hard
to scribble down their presence,
who set a furious pace
between the sheets
and wrote their dirty books
to read aloud and grew upset
when no one listened. We
didn't regret regret. We didn't
regret a life pointless aspiration.
We wrote each other letters
and found our language suffering
from deep concussion
in its deepest structures. Love
was detained by loveliness we thought
like sticky jam, like some accomplishment
we somehow spent our feelings
getting to. Nothing got said.
It was a world of silent pictures,
damp and magical. It was
between you and me and not
between those fixtures. I wanted to write
straight home for instance
and make the big announcement.
You wanted me, I wanted you.
I never wrote the letter.
Each time I tried, the syntax
seemed to rot and leave
a few choice phrases underlined.
And then I supposed no words would do.
There was nothing I thought to say
that sounded true, nothing at least
to write straight home about,
no one at home to write home to.