Young trees the bright green of a moonless night, lawn the red of scorpion, -- the pleasure dome drops, a drill ceases and a mower resumes. It hides the spectacle of the mountains and jolts us, it's been a long time since we've had a little space to ourselves. All the same, in spite of everything, we are made to live in the air, which involves a certain number of mental operations the full force of a bow, a revision of the notion of history, oddly imitating the movements of animals when I think about it, doubling back, appearing to be shot or struck -- and celestial sounds, not sound itself rock the bare earth, packed hard and nailed to the tune of the unconscious, which we regret to understand. Don't get me wrong, there's still a knowledge of freedom, a bath, a change of clothing, possession of a child's heart, a handshake, and the function of time a detail -- even in air language is a cross between an appetite and a mouth -- I'm not hungry when I'm lonely. Like all the lead and neon which is forgotten I forget that people have died forever, no one knows you and the ideal place is a dome with horses' shadows the shade of steel gin, and what formerly acceded to a view constitutes love. A pear -- remember now future became present -- in a kitchen and two rooms in orbit pins the horizon with its pony body and elk head and we enact where we first made love the camellia of our beloved -- we can't touch exactly but attempt a profound correlation -- we grip the skeleton of a river and the sun kisses it like one's own throat. This is the earth, my love, all of us have a chunk on our backs. You are an angel and I am an ancient who're cast from two and a half billion cars a day into one copter night, and closure is that windmill through a wall in the circle, drifting like the once innocent oil spills in the Pacific, like conversation. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A HILLSIDE THAW by ROBERT FROST BLUEBEARD'S CLOSET by ROSE TERRY COOKE ALMANZOR & ALMAHIDE, OR THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA: PART 2. EPILOGUE by JOHN DRYDEN |