Gazebo for Two Anarchists
-after Storm King Arts Center, NY
I wait hours for you,
winding along the 84s and 87s,
your mother's 3rd hand relay
of your whereabouts as reassurance,
that and acting Noguchi pit
in the granite peach,
reclining in the burning ivy with
Moore's iron maiden,
prickled to anxious by
Nevelson's poky house of cards.
You push your voice like
a gun to my back,
sneak from behind as I
ring up your mother one more time,
the sun sinking straight
into the wary horizon.
"Put down that phone!"
I obey; you never have to beg.
My life starts each year in September,
shuffling thru colonial leaves,
damp autumn winds
piercing china skies,
clouds moving quicker than stars.
We met in July, at the start of the eighties,
bought matching dresses at the foreign booth
to burn Sinatra, listen to incense
creak on the metal dorm sills in.
Your husband hangs between us now,
beloved by proxy,
English cowboy met
on another range.
The moon shone on all of us,
but the love fell on you.
Long picnic shadows
join us at the tables, with
bare turkey and cheese on wheat.
I have a photo of myself
dangling from a pointed cannon;
later, I would stumble on an old god
at a mountainside lodge,
my lips melting into his hundred apologies,
soon to be multiplied.
You and I chat up mothers, molehills
in that metal gazebo,
as if the normal setting for us
was this spare trolley.
Anarchists? I'd like to think
our love lives beyond the system,
our lives apart from cocktails and terror.
You shine rocks with your fingertips,
mold gold into the things we need.
I write it all down,
Basho of the Hudson,
hoping straw sandals, orchids for laces
will be enough.
The trolley stays as we part,
twilight bellowing in the distant space.
Gazebo tea-talk lingers
on my windburned mouth.
The mountains stay behind.