III. The Village

There are so many pianos still left

In the fields of the village
Where you insist that we continue
To live, so many pianos

Though only a few have remained faithful
To the serious chords of the wind.

For example, the camel-colored Steinway

Beneath the ancient arbor of lavender wisteria
& drooping bougainvillea has barely

A dozen keys left working, their thin felt

Hammers long grown as soggy as dawn mist,
Soft as the pillowing fog.

Still, you say, who cares?, as you turn from me,

Stepping calmly onto the narrow stone terrace
Overloking these perpetual fields—

Just as every young woman in this

Village stands each morning, every one of them,
& exactly at this moment of the day, satisfied by

The first ripple of light as it sketches

The body’s languid harmony. If I am lucky, I know
I will liver forever in this ancient, lost village

Of pianos & a late pagan petulance.

XVII.  A Summer Abstract

The little yellow vowels rose out of our mouths
Like knots in the river current, like sudden blotches

On a sketchbook. Sallow, the words. Octaves
Of orange light finger, today, the sequence of postures

You perform: turn, wake, & rise. There is nothing
Left for us to deflect in what we say. Instead, we

Pull outselves up by the customary braids of day,
Though your hair seemed more urgent this morning, its

Usual halo not so fixed & obtrusive. You know, if
You breathe a little more slowly, even your hair (so

Translucent & red lately) will wave in the near
Twilight just like a flag, I mean a real one; I mean

A real silken nervous flag.