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Christopher wells |
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FOR A BEDROOM The closet door sleeps exactly as I forgot it. Crayon hieroglyph. Ink profanity. Love-verse in pencil. An obscene erasure. In ways we cannot hold things disappear. Spouses here once squealed in wet caresses. Stained sheets. Ethereal blankets. Spotted mattress. The oak floor glowing. One day one ignored the other dusting the bookcase. Now or someday ghosts will decorate this room. Deadly fever. Healthy newborn. Illness grown old. A vigorous youth. The wainscoting awakens exactly as I remember it. IN MEMORY OF PINES I was brought from potato vines through this my native corn blades. I come through these very bean leaves to this influence, this presence. It is one of the oldest daguerreotypes developed on my memory. These landscapes, these pastures, these skyscrapers are all walked over tonight. I have cooked my old eyes in the aspect of fallen johnswort. A new growth is rising, preparing other stumps all around. Almost the same pines echo and spring from the same perennial waters. I have at length paved the fabulous streets of my infant memory. In this town, this city I see the pond in the wood and the field, the oldest scenes. ON POVERTY The manners were now over. His case promised a fair hospitality. I was hoping to get a mouthful of gruel, a stomach full of water to comfort my delay. Instead of water and culinary vessels there were broken buckets, irrecoverable ropes. After such a long survey I nearly passed out. Dry well bottoms stain life here. I obtained a drink through a skillfully directed departure. I drank in the genuine evening, the heartiest woods. In the morning I kept my eye out for a rainbow or anything where showers were concerned. |