Faking it

The fudging happens right under your thumbs,
precisely when you start listening. Can
you hear the clarinets, the brown bassoons,
the grainy umber of flutes?
Such sylvan tones denote
particular images: at sleepy pools birds
flutter and drink. The trees themselves, of course,
are essential, but even more so the odd modernist
enjambment. The forest,
the pastoral instruments, vanish.
The birds are pretty props, the pools
merely contextual, and presto,
the tink of hammers rests
and a shanty
looms like a stadion.

But you are paying attention
and your determination
should pay, though it won't. The sun impales itself
on a weathercock or crucifix, night settles
over a church or silo. So what?
Somebody's blonde
opens a basket under willows. The lake is orange
and surprises, like fire. The swans swan
in lazy flotillas. You want a waltz, that's
up to you. I'm sure you'll make the obvious choice
and I thrive on such distractions,
nudge you through a different doorway,
famish you with pears
that dangle inches from your mouth
which really should protest.

Since you insist on playing the soft touch
I will admit something: Beyond the hills
where pines bristle, in a mauve
oblivion occasionally relieved
by the spit of contrails (fake clouds
ejaculated backwards) which might spell
some sweetheart's birthday
or an adman's hook, in that nearly twilit
pinkish space, lies no answer. May you ponder
tarot cards and tea-leaves, may your pulse
find calm in omens, your lips
make ovals of aums, may revelation come.
In green pavilions Tudor horsemen
kiss thin horns
and splendidly expire.

x