St. John - The last troubadour: new and selected poems

The night releases Its stars, & the birds the new morning. It is an act of grace & disgust. A gesture of light: The lamp turned low in the window, the harvest Fire across the far warp of the land. The somber Cadence of boots returns. A village Pocked with soldiers, the dishes rattling in the cupboard As an old serving woman carries a huge, silver spoon Into the room & as she polishes she holds it just So in the light, & the fat Of her jowls Goes taut in the reflection. Its what shapes The sag of those cheeks, & has Nothing to do with death though it is as simple, & insistent.

Like a coat too tight at the shoulders, or a bedroom Weary of its single guest. At last, a body Is spent by sleep: A dream stealing the arms, the legs. A lover who has left you Walking constantly away, beyond that stand Of bare, autumnal trees: Vague, & loose. Yet, its only The dirt that consoles the root. You must begin Again to move, towards the icy sill. A small Girl behind a hedge of snow Working a stick puppet so furiously the passersby bump Into one another, watching the stiff arms Fling out to either side, & the nervous goose step, the dances Going on, & on Though the girl is growing cold in her thin coat & silver Leotard.

She lays her cheek to the frozen bank & lets the puppet sprawl upon her, Across her face, & a single man is left twirling very Slowly, until the street Is empty of everything but snow. The snow Falling, & the puppet. That girl. You close the window, & for the nights affair slip on the gloves Sewn of the delicate Hides of mice. They are like the redemption Of a drastic weather: Your boat Put out too soon to sea, Come back. Like the last testimony, & trace of desire.

Or, How your blouse considers your breasts, How your lips preface your tongue, & how a man Assigns a silence to his words. We know lovers who quarrel At a party stay in the cool trajectory Of the others glance, Spinning through pockets of conversation, sliding in & out Of the little gaps between us all until they brush or stand at last Back to back, & the one hooks An ankle around the others foot. Even the woman Undressing to music on a stage & the man going home the longest Way after a night of drinking remember The brave lyric of a heel-&-toe. As we remember the young Acolyte tipping The flame to the farthest candle & turning To the congregation, twirling his gold & white satin Skirts so that everyone can see his woolen socks & rough shoes Thick as the hunters boots that disappear & rise Again in the tall rice Of the marsh. The dogs, the heavy musk of duck. How the leaves Introduce us to the tree.

How the tree signals The season, & we begin Once more to move: Place to place. Hand To smoother & more lovely hand. A slow dance. To get along. You toss your corsage onto the waters turning Under the fountain, & walk back To the haze of men & women, the lazy amber & pink lanterns Where you will wait for nothing more than the slight gesture Of a hand, asking For this slow dance, & another thick & breathless night. Yet, you want none of it.

Only, to return To the countryside. The fields & long grasses: The scent of your sons hair, & his face Against your side, As the cattle knock against the walls of the barn Like the awkward dancers in this room You must leave, knowing the leaving as the casual & careful betrayal of what comes Too easily, but not without its cost, like an old white Wine out of its bottle, or the pages Sliding from a worn hymnal. At home, you walk With your son under your arm, asking of his day, & how It went, & he begins the story How he balanced on the sheer hem of a rock, to pick that shock Of aster nodding in the vase, in the hall. You pull him closer & turn your back to any other life. You want Only the peace of walking in the first light of morning, As the petals of ice bunch one Upon another at the lip of the iron pump & soon a whole blossom Hangs above the trough, a crowd of children teasing it With sticks until the pale neck snaps, & flakes spray everyone, & everyone simply dances away.