You’ll find as many gasps for air in THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV
As there are in all of Somerset County. A place on Earth
Relaxes into the dominion imposed upon it. We
Go out and see a jubilation of discredited greenery
Waiting to dazzle us.
As if all their lives depended on the success in
Our I wouldn’t quite say smiles.
People keep coming around.
When Alain Delon died I thought everything was garbage.But mostly because everything was already garbage when he died.
Duke Ellington died about sixteen months before I was born. Nabokov in Switzerland when I was two.
I like thinking about death this way, as a kind of ledger in which the shifting balance isn’t held to a generic standard:
Look at his eyes. His piscine, the only piscine of my dreams.
Laughter in the dark,
The explosive fire thar destroys you in the end
Owes itself to a single chemical.
Think of the red head of a match.
The sulphuric you smell is youth being languidly
Burned away.
The not smell of anything is a part of your heart
Sings.
The world of wonders has yet to be born.
I see young people at the pool taunting one another,
Screaming. The dry white grass prickles.
Their eyes bloom with heavenly rain.
I keep dreaming of myself in the eyes of
The lord.
I am young, swimming, I’m crying,
A loud child child begging the universe
For a sense of purpose. What do I get?
A galaxy of perverse silence. And maybe something else.
