1. Twice, now, I've gone back there, like a part-time ghost To the wrecked houses and the blasted courts of the dream Where the freeway is pushing through. Snake country now. Rats-run -- Bearable, bearable -- Winos' retreat and the midnight newfound lands -- Bearable, perfectly bearable -- Of hungering rich lovers under the troubling moon Their condominium; bowery close; momentary kingdom come -- Wild country of love that exists before the concrete Is poured. Squatters there. That's all O.K. with me. 2. First time I went there -- about a year ago come Monday -- I went hunting flowers: flowering bushes, flowering shrubs, flowering Years-grown-over gardens: what was transportable. What was transportable had been taken long away. Among the detritus, rock-slides, confessions, emotional moraines -- Along the dream plazas and the alleys of the gone moon -- Some stragglers and wildlings: poppy, sorrel, nightblooming Nothing. And found finally my own garden -- where it had been -- A pissed-upon landscape now, full of joy-riding Beer cans and condoms all love's used up these days Empty wine bottles wrappers for synthetic bread . . . . . . Larkspur, lupin, lavender, lantana, linaria, lovage. @3And@1 the foxglove's furry thimble and the tiny chime of fuchsia All gone. The children's rooms have a roof of Nothing And walls of the four wild winds. And, in the rooms of the night, The true foundation and threshing floor of love, Are the scars of the rocking bed, and, on certain nights, the moon. Unending landscape . . . dry . . . blind robins . . . 3. Blind Robins, Blind Robins -- Fisherman, do you take Blind Robins In the stony trough of the dry Los Angeles river? No charmed run of alewives or swarming of holy mackerel From the pentecostal cloud chambers of the sex-charged sea, no Leaping salmon on the light-embroidered ladders of eternal redemption? Damnation of blind robins . . . bacalao . . . dried cod, is that Is that all you take on your dead-rod green-fishing Jonah, Poor boy, mad clean crazy lad I pulled once from this river in spate it is not Bearable. 4. Well, wait, then. Observe. Sky-writing pigeons, their . . . Blue unanswerable documents of flight, their . . . Unearthly attachments. Observe: these last poor flowers, their light-shot promises, That immortality, green signature of their blood . . . . . . . . . Now, instantly, the concrete comes: the freeway leaps over the dead River and this once now twice-green moment into the astonished Suburbs of the imaginary city petrified Megalopolitan grief homesteads of lost angels anguish . . . On this day nothing rises from the dead, the river Dying, the dry flowers going under the mechanic stone . . . Sirs! Archaeologists! what will you find at that level of ancient light? Poverty destroyed sweet hearts and houses once before Progress His Engines Put down a final roof on the wild kitchens of that older Order. These lovers long are fled into the storm. The river is dry. It is finally. completely. Bearable Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LAND OF DREAMS by WILLIAM BLAKE EPILOGUE TO DRAMATIS PERSONAE by ROBERT BROWNING THE MAN HE KILLED by THOMAS HARDY MARY MAGDALENE by GEORGE HERBERT THE FALL OF HYPERION; A DREAM by JOHN KEATS THE MALLARDS PASS UNHARMED by LAURA FRANCES ALEXANDER A LAMENT FOR PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN |