Friday, February 13, 2015

Report from No-Name

Report from No-Name

Sick as we’ve been for so long, our loved ones
sick too, it’s hard to find a good so small
it’s safe from pain’s decay. Like burying
the food you’ve got in a small iron box
so deep in the earth the rats won’t guess it’s
there, much less try to dig it up and gnaw
it open. Those tireless teeth and little paws!
And yet we do it, you and I, day after day
we find it and build it, our small good sanctuary
—the “delicate web” you’ve called it—
here in No-Name Apartment, so spacious and
ailing it’s perfect too, no dissonance, in chairs
astride the hole in the ceiling, water dripping
into a roasting pan, I read T’ang poems, forgetting
what I read and reading it again, and you read
manga, broad inks flaring across a tiny screen,
never forgetting one you’ve read but
luckily there are thousands of them. Whole days
can pass like this. The best, the luckiest days. In 
the evening we drink gin and red wine—too
much, which is the just-enough we need. You
create a simple meal—always delicious, never the
same twice—out of a handful of vegetables, a
little meat sometimes, and rice, and we eat two
helpings after clinking glasses, watching whatever
your rambles have pulled in today from cyberspace: 
techniques of masonry and stained glass in an old
cathedral, how the engineers at Machu Pichu
solved the problems of drainage ingeniously,
saving the emperor’s mountain terraces from simply
sliding away. Awe is good for the digestion.  
The best days blend, one into the other, variations
on a theme, and at night in our bed I curl gratefully
behind you, two chipped and tarnished spoons in
a dark drawer, working my hand around over your
night clothes to find your heart, its faint stubborn
thudding far beyond loss, deep below sorrow.

No comments:

Post a Comment

2009, a blog by Mike Barnes, welcomes comments on current and past posts. Type your comment here.