Named After the sun

 

WAlt Hunter

In the painting, the parts of the flowers are

 not always where you think they should be,

and the dancer reminds you of the bodies of decaying saints

behind glass. It is, above all, a sea

ringed round with mountains,

these lights, tulle,

a spell of lights run out of a dream

at the point of sale.

 

First we were older, standing in the

 middle of the street in identical shirts,

one of us clapping his hands

while you write looking

out at the evening, summer,

hardly anything to spend.

In a courtyard

 

making plans for a house, a temporary translation,

 the readers of the world

grew dark. So when they realized what it was,

 they acted very quickly.

Many of the restaurants were then named after the sun,

and traces of wheat fill the air

even today, this time of year. The book

is a loving encasement of the town,

and in the garden,

 

which followed later, a great cerisier casts shade

  on shade, the light extending

until very late, the air growing old, never that warm

this time of year. Philanthropy is good business,

at moments of the origins of finance, not

generosity. The day spent reading

about Lebanon, the day spent reading about Palestine,

the day spent on stakes,

 

adept in the end-times, soon only by thinking.

 As always, you are following my regard,

the one I see looking away, back turned to me as my back

is also turned against, and never speaking,

but looking ahead, here at the heart of debt,

at the house, by turn in thunder,

sea through blinding tears, in bursts

of spray, echoing colonnade.

On they flew:

 

no meadows, weeping there as always,

 and groans and anguish. The stones proposed

by poetic forms are ethical ones, so many summer dusks,

three bags in the bedroom closet, and bedding

on the piano case, books on top of the dresser,

containers in front of the dresser, grey dress

in the living room closet. That was meant

cruelly

 

as a reminder of when we had been at

 a rather advanced stage in the process

of turning into something else altogether

not by accumulation, but by modification. While glorying

in growth, the eye blows out

to bright cotyledon. It takes an act of reason

to find you there, singing

that it hurts to love.