when my sugar
rim of the well pours
it neither plinks nor
like a coin
in the sugar
was suspended between itself;
& my sugar
the dark waters right
They’re meeting in a town called Nevers, which, because we’re in France, is pronounced like a Norwegian saying no way. They’re living on a houseboat called Virtuous Attachment. They have fancy omelet dinners on a gratuitous waterbed. After a night meandering the cape, Virtuous Attachment is docked by morning like nothing happened but face masks and old movies. Like Margaret Fuller and a bowl of cherry tomatoes. We see right through it, bobbing one harbor over on a dinghy called Impressionable. In terms of see right though it, the seagulls are laughing again at my pareo. We take turns with opera glasses, strapped into the director’s chair like Hemingway after mahi. We take turns being Barbara Bel Geddes. Tonight’s special is red herring with a side of potatoes lyonaisse. One more seaweed boot and we have quorum. We’re running out of bigger bait. Meanwhile, my nubile New England pallor is the pink of clafoutis. Just because I’m the one pressing fingerprints into my own burnt chest doesn’t mean they’re not clues for something. You should try it, stop. Chad, meanwhile, grows further fulvous by the second, full stop. When he do the voodoo. When he clambers aboard deck, mint on his collar and grass stains on his cuff. The skinshine makes us squint. Not to mention those propitious little swim trunks. It looks like a hibiscus pattern. I knew his legs way back when. We’re going to make viewfinders for the apocalypse. We’re going to launch Platonic his and her fireworks to celebrate our three-week anniversary. From this point forward, everything will have been the future perfect tense. In this way, even talking about the future will have sounded deceptively nostalgic, like peeking out of the corner of your eyes while looking in the opposite direction. The ugly duckling’s first word was peep. I see you. Yes you (you’re adorable). Do you mind if we ask you some questions? Starting now, where will you have you been all my life?
THE GOLDEN BOWL
Intelligence’s new porousness meant the world poured through it.
We found feathers in the forest, returned haunted, an expression
less of our limits than the limits of intelligence whistling in our ear,
pouring through us. Try to remember when it returns how it felt
in your hands, returned in stone and spoken as incantation (you might
have noticed how little you were speaking). Intelligence
is like this, a souvenir cross commemorating some earlier cross,
& as an aid if not to devotion than the form of devotion, it returns
in amber, a gold bath, photograph of a cross submerged in piss,
and only in measuring the difference between pornography and art—
souvenir and expensive relic of the wreck of the Andrea Dorea—do we come
to understand intelligence as the gold in which we’d floated.
1 She turned to meet the Ambassador and the Prince, who, their colloquy with their Field-Marshal ended, were now at hand and had already, between them, she was aware, addressed her a remark that failed to penetrate the golden glow in which her intelligence was temporarily bathed.