From the roof the night's the color of a mollusk, stained with teeth and oil -- she wants to be rid of us and go to sea. And the soot is the odor of brine and imperishable sausages. Beneath me from a window I hear "Blue Hawaii." On Pontchartrain the Rex Club dances on a houseboat in a storm -- a sot calms the water without wetting a foot. I'd walk to Iceland, saluting trawlers. I won't sell the rights to this miracle. It was hot in Indiana. The lovers sat on a porch swing, laughing; a car passed on the gravel road, red taillights bobbing over the ruts, dust sweeping the house, the scent of vetch from the pasture. Out there the baleen nuzzles his iceberg, monuments drown in the lava of birdshit. I scuffle the cinders but the building doesn't shudder -- they've balanced it on a rock. The Charles floats seaward, bored with history. Night, cutting you open I see you're full of sour air like any rubber ball. |