EVERY LEAF ADRIFT
Dimpled glimmer of Venus, lonely
In the glassy dome of morning, yield
A little to me your meaning:
A blur of crossed lights from the Latin and Greek,
You are desire, the one who left me
Five birthdays ago, you are love and beauty
With which, ever since, mornings have more brightly
Flourished, you are second in distance from the sun
As I am the second son, and as you double
For Lucifer and Hesperus so I am divided,
A man cleft – that Friday
(Also born of Venus’ name) five years gone
When I walked the rainy Hawthorne bridge
To drink in the city’s barrooms of gloom, trying to die
And not to, crossing back clutching the rail,
Returning to the blue room inhabited before me
By my younger brother and before him
By a child murderer; next day waking
Aged twenty-six and drinking seven quarts
As the maple leaves smoldered russet and crimson,
Covering the sidewalks, a day so wildly storming
I wished to disappear in it, this womb
Of what is, of forever, this common source
To which we are not permitted to return
Unless for good, in the ground,
Thousands of maize leaves released
And haunting the edges of blackout…
So that on Sunday, the day beyond,
I ached with change, as with a coming fever,
And believed I had passed some clotted channel
This side of which I would not have to struggle.
In his room Rufus mused: Seven quarts,
That’s a lot of brew, and lit a Kool,
Later regaling me with tales of Korean whores.
Walking home past foggy Buckman field,
The buildings across the river etched red,
Perpetually stunned with longing, I had dignity
To look forward to as if it were a distant city
Templed against the naked flare of dusk.
And now I stare at you, star, ubiquitous bitch,
With bitter wisdom instead of hope, not pining
For the lonesome past where death moved near
In every cold sidewalk and limb, every leaf
Adrift and down, where a shattered God
Made promises to the forsaken.