Printer Friendly

Falls to the floor, comes to the door.

That arrival, a foretaste of which appalls some, assumed its rightful place as a statistic. "I don't suppose you ... No," I snapped, "nor at the opera, with the slush outside. It seems to me a mildewed brick has been planted in my path that wasn't there when I last looked ... but when was that? Why keep the charade up, if it matters so little, like a tiny window or a bit of missing veneer." Then I get my hopes up. So much gets sorted out in coming, like the spring cleaning you always dreamed of. What, me? It's as though an elf on a charger commanded me to lie on my back, under the tree whose trunk is swelling, becoming the world, it may be. And I have galaxies to turn out, into the street, in knickers, anywhere, so long as they be going ... One reads how another one's kinsman has inherited a vast estate in Scotland. The things that happen to other people! Surely it was only a minute ago I caught you in a lapsed prayer that was answered, you said it yourself. I, from this shelf whence I see no land, not even space, can yet recall how the ducks danced under their umbrella.
COPYRIGHT 1993 World Poetry, Inc.
No portion of this article can be reproduced without the express written permission from the copyright holder.
Copyright 1993 Gale, Cengage Learning. All rights reserved.

Article Details
Printer friendly Cite/link Email Feedback
Author:Ashbery, John
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Jan 1, 1993
Previous Article:Gummed reinforcements.
Next Article:The archipelago.

Terms of use | Copyright © 2017 Farlex, Inc. | Feedback | For webmasters