Valarie Duff
View on the Arno: Coming About
(after a painting by Thomas
Cole)
Explain immersion, watch the cashmere
sun extend to edge and vanish so the captain says. Across the floor,
we spot another mast. A green hull pulls against the drag, where
bodies brushed on boats patrol like swans. They're almost us. We
overlap. In this world, real or psychological, life's fuzzy toward the
shore. The plot of water stiffens while we wait, slurred and faceless,
tight inside the boat. Land-trapped relations wave us in to sleep-a
moon to stretch across-to cottonwood, weeds that fringe the frame,
stake the wall. Flax. Curl and swag, green between shores,
resistant. Note: we like it here, we like the birds that never sing
but watch us.
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The Mill Wheel
The last gables fade off the street. I
count up my failures, gaze at my nails, the wolf rolls from my
mouth, bares his teeth- we love this as much as we hate
it. Alone, we walk to the park.
Relief comes in a place that's not ours, on a bench, dogs barking.
Down the street, a ball is tossed again and again on the side of
house, the heart's thud. He's got eyes that look through me
to treadmills, the mule's dead circle, steps lightly. Battalions
and bayonets, thoughts threading the chaos and sulphur of me. Deep
in it, we're wolves, checking out people. We stick together. At
least we have each other, never sleep, have difficulty
forgetting. We know all the shopkeepers' names. I put my fists
out and hope I hit something.
He asks why I'm blind now. The walls rust each afternoon, tints
in the wood are crows, a necklace, a light shaft, a glass with water
in it,
a green swath of forest, bright sun, all I've seen. Roads, the
arrows shot at birds, sacred places, old haunts. The slaughter of
cows in England. The light the shades keep out.
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