late for bela. we were almost late.
in november drizzle
lost and kissing,
darkness slowing our gait.
wishing, when I play
i play like booker
angry, and incredulous
words in vain,
that I knew,
knew little not.
rushing past us rows of languid lights.
vowels inhaled –
words in vain,
in the darkness,
of november rain.
from here
we cannot see the harbor,
where a vendor – hoarse and reeking,
sings,
and whores – gray and foreign
drift,
gossiping of fishy things,
along the creaking gangplank.
bottles bob, barrels roll
miles of mesh lie limp and waste
windless years –
on the creaking gangplank.
in this vast paradise –
horizonless and edgeless –
we are bunched up
in the middle of our dinghy.
i raise my hand above your head
at midday.
Oh my sloppy joe, forlorn,
rippling with mirth,
down my chin you ran,
like a plantain.
Once upon a hot summer ragu
In the blue bayou.
Of mint and thyme
And bristly porcupine
speak, if you must
smile, only just…
Your skin – soft and golden
In the august sun – slow and swollen
Sesame and quints
Saucy vitamins.
But my memory
fades as the twilight
till just the secret melody lingers
in the bare boughs –
and whispers to me,
whispers of charles mingus
Rains will surely come
and wash you away
or on a ship you’ll depart
to return never
into the haven of my heart.
But perhaps on a rainy day –
Dark and gaunt –
I may forget
To remember never that day
in september.