Sunday, May 15, 2011

Goodnight, Sunday Night, Goodnight

Goodnight, Sunday Night, Goodnight

The descendants of pioneers and shootists
seasonally coil and uncoil garden hoses,
say they are feeling chirpy or not so honeysuckle.
General Hooker's men named sweeties for him
and Bat Masterson later, in New York,
on whiskey-inspiration, bought an Italian sword.
No matter the wedding, I am the bridegroom.
Doc Holliday was fond of quoting Caligula.

The evening sky is volunteering blue after days
of grey.  Oh, if only to have a bust of Hemingway
in down-slope age,  his eyes laughing at a stone
taken from the Craters of the Moon one sober evening.
The TV is on in the other room and someone is gabbling
like a goony about the price of oil, someone with no trophies
in an epoch when everyone gets a trophy, if only for bowling,
which is not sport, failing to meet even sewage-standards
for grace and character.  The evening sky
appears to be a cathedral's stained glass.

The descendants of pioneers and shootists
always know where their refrigerators are,
though the children are problematic... given, as they are,
to splitting apart from themselves, Twittering-wild,
I'm on a dark bridge... frozen in emptiness.
The evening sky stretches, brightens at horizon,
carries the perfume of rushing spring rivers,
sings a soft song of new planted spring pines.

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