Envoy                                   


An open book on the patio table,
Pages turning back and forth
As if it were reading itself
And lost its place

—That would be Force 1
On the Beaufort Scale, the gentlest:
Wind felt on face,
Smoke follows wind,
Thoughts follow smoke.

           . . .

Go, little book, glide
Down to where
Miles below, at my feet,
Dew-soaked cobwebs that rose
Overnight out of the pachysandra
Into a host of bright pavilions,
Shimmer and sag.

Through the drenched porch screen,
Through glistening, half-dead cedar,
Follow the downhill view
Of times trans-shifting,
Send a last slant of mist
Sailing off into the blue

To “that whiter island, where
           Things are evermore sincere:
Candor here, and luster there
                               Delighting.”

Here—Welcome to Putnam Valley
                     New York
               Population: 9,500
             Elevation: Infrequent

—and luster there,
Where pollen so fine it drifted
Through the screen, enaureoled
The cherry wood windowsill.

Swipe a few phrases as you go by,
Drawn here and there
With a fingertip, a few words
Scrawled in pollen and dust.

Make the most of the slightest breeze,
Coast over the heads
Of the innumerables, wave
To fretful bankers and clerks,
Tax collectors,
Traffic troopers,
Delirious archeologists,
Scriveners, car mechanics,
Mutilated saints, boggled messiahs,
And most of Wyoming
—Once again thank them
For giving me reason to insist:
Life is completely interesting.

Alight on a nose,
Flip a page or two,
Leave them wondering—
So much sail
For such a narrow hull—
How a butterfly
Always looks as if it’s learning
How to—always looks
As if it’s flying for the first time.

Float over the lowland skies
And washed-out roads,
The vague though uncontested
Boundaries of Apathy
And its neighboring realms.

Fold your wings (dilly
And dally) for a minute,
In the middle
Of what must be
Dereliction Junction.

Go to the louts and vagrants
In the marketplace,
The fish stall, or sprawled
On the greasy linoleum floor
In the mausoleum,
Or under the sooty roses
And mauled honeysuckle
Of the rank schoolyard grove.

Go with a little pity
And a little more disdain
To the abject sensualist who,
Pondering the tedious prospect
Of an afterlife, eyes
The spectral ascent of cigarette smoke
In a humid room
And suspects
Something incorrigible, perhaps
Sensual, indeed hopeful,
In how it climbs
Onto a ceiling cobweb.

Omni Animalium Post Coitum Marlboro.

Drop by the dusty palace
If there’s time.
Give my regards
To The Queen of Inertia, goddess
Of something or other.
Help her bestow some kind
Of achievement award
On Uncle Lethargy.

Linger a while
To celebrate
Ennui’s birthday party.
Come on, let’s hear it!
Happy Birthday, Little Ennui!
Bring a few gifts, amulets
To leave on the carcass
Of Complacency.

Salute the scribblers,
Advise them how
To infuse their themes
Of Languor and Negligence
With a ferocious splendor.
O Dissipation, Indifference,
A figuring forth,
A fury of resemblances, et cetera!
Abounding, abounding we will go!

Tell them at least
Paul Viooooooooli,
A licensed poet,
Condemns their books
As a sizzling blank, devoid
Of what is sweet and right
And joyful, though he
Admires their acuity
On such matters as Indolence’s
Exuding a stronger fragrance
Than Malaise.

Flick your wings
And set trees asway,
A whiff of exuberance
That will give
Wambly villagers
Yet another reason
To find sanctuary
In the nearest tavern.

You may as well,
While you’re at it,
Make it a Force 10
On the Beaufort scale,
The most convincing.

Then before a furies’ broth
Snatches striplings
Out of their boots,
Rabbits out of their warrens—

Before maidens collapse
And crones scramble
To bury their valuables
(And their cronies slyly note
Where they’re doing it),
Before harpies descend
On festivals and befoul the victuals—
Flee, little book!

Flee for all you’re worth
Over the smeared maps of the world.
Find your own city in the night,
And the moment the air turns cool
Flow through an open window
In a black room.

Go to her in whose eyes
There is always
The moment the night air
Turns suddenly cool
With the newness of the day.

Go, little book, arrive
With the newness of the day
Hours before sunrise.