Wry Mr James commits enormities
Of style with style. This late in life he knows
Embonpoint is a structural device,
The close that makes the man--his buttons need
Jumbo's dexterity to finish off.
He calls his flowers flowers: that's enough
For floribundant similarity;
But caution comes in shades, like purple light
Climbing a red-brick garden wall at dusk;
And he sees every tint, Adamic man
Mounting a stair which knows no period,
Only a pause, a lamp lit at each landing.
Here is a list of what I can't remember—
I'm kidding, of course. No, wait. Here is a list.
What time it was. How old I was. Who came
And what she brought. The capital of Chi.
The publication dates of What's-His-Name
And when I hit him. All the horses' men.
Pringles & Funyuns. All the rabbi's girls.
The Queen of Hearts and Blackjack Mulligan.
To few of these have I been reconciled.
I shall not steal your money, and your wife
Is safe if I'm awake. A coral reef,
Teeming with spirits, angelfish and clowns—
Did I see that, or was it someone's book,
Lost in the fires of '71, the last
Post just before the world grew up and left,
The bitter end of something bittersweet?
What is the sound of Puget in the fall?
It seems to be an owl who doesn’t show
What or when or why or where. Below
His wings no squeak escapes the wood. The call
Of the meek, the gently terrified, the bland
Seed-swallowers, is wishful in the dark:
That they had never occupied the land,
But joined the doves escaping from the ark
To anywhere. None of the toothsome tots
Asks for a story. Tell me nothing more,
They say. We already have lots and lots
To share. Pray with us to the predator.
The owl is looking at the looming shore
And pivots towards a land of limbs and knots.