Under
the horse
chestnut
tree
in the Jardin
des Tuileries,
I close my black
umbrella
and rest
it
beneath
the green
metal
chair. I sit
and watch
the thunderstorm
rearranging
everything
weak; reinforcing
everything
strong; translating
the future. I am
dry
and waiting
beneath
the horse chestnut
tree, whose
vermillion
blooms
spill
their petals
delicately.
That feeling
you
get (I won’t call
it pre-emptive
guilt
or more vaguely,
panic)
when
a bunch
of old people
get on a bus
or enter
a subway
car
where
you are sitting
comfortably
with a short
or long
distance
remaining—it doesn’t
matter, the feeling
initially
is the same. Before
you make
a decision.
We call it song
because
we
don’t
really
understand
what the birds
are saying; and it doesn’t
sound
half
bad
compared
to the abusive
morning news
of a chronic
international
bad
mood. Healed,
the solitary
man
returned
to his suburban
hut
in the Gerasene
hills, clothed
finally
in disillusion; and
the remembrance
of a friend.
The miniature
genius
was
lifting
his fork
full of green
and red
salad
to his mouth
when I asked,
“What happens
when
they
find
the God
Particle?” He
froze,
literally. After
several
minutes
waiting
for reanimation,
my gaze
wandered
to the Panasonic
flatscreen
on the wall.
Sportscenter
was airing
mutely
news
of the revenant
Celtics.
Jake
was trying
desperately
to get
across
deserted Bergen
Street
to the vacant
brownstone
on the other side
in the heavy
film-
noir
rain. There were no cars
to halt
him; he
just
kept
tripping
over the muddy
exposed
magnolia
roots
bulging
out of the sidewalk. “Jake?”
said the woman
gently, trying
to wake
him.
We might have found reprieve
in the desert,
or further
ruination. I couldn’t
gamble
my
remaining
moonlight
on the godless
possibility
of water. Another
elegy
to hoping
for conventional
happiness
in this
world. Is
how
I wait
for something
better. You
came
to me
with the prettiest
storms,
and restored
my
eyes
to the sky.
In the red
end (I was
writing
a paean
to F. Scott
Fitzgerald’s
deep,
exquisite
mitigation
of consequence), past
the fragrant
vestibule
of religion,
I remove
my
inadvertently
broken
in black
Frye
boots, and wander
vagrantly
toward. I see
stolen
men
sleeping
on their knees.
Unborn
grandchildren
in the rafters. Coy
and intricate
Mudéjar
patterns.
Claire
was
in the garden
needlessly
weeding
between
the thriving
red
dahlias
and purple
alliums, when she heard a clank.
She looked
up
and saw
pale
fingers
grasping
the top
of the high
opaque
chain
fence
surrounding
her large,
shady
backyard. She
dropped
her
spade
and waited,
forever
it
seemed,
for a face
to appear.
Suddenly
mindful
and utterly
unconvinced
of
the trembling, trying
sentence
he
was
ineffectually
supporting
with many
syllables,
the adverb
characteristically
fell
away
into molten
pre-consciousness. Where
I found
him
years
underneath
in a thunderstorm
café
sipping
a dove,
learning
windfully
to become
a German
noun. He was glad
to see
me. Glad
to get
out.
I’m following
this
thread
of sanity
out. I can’t
help
it. This
is
not
a metaphor. This
is not a myth.
Your
life
belongs
to a thriving
experimental
civilization
beyond
death. It’s
not
even
a place
yet. Above the clouds
or
in a church
or on a public
bus. Though
you
are getting, ineluctably,
closer
every
time.