By John Ashbery
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Extra resources for April galleons : poems
Life, it thinks, is like growing up Entrusted to the sole care of a French governess, Never knowing anything about your parents, As lights come on in the city far across the bay. ” attached to them, The flowers waiting to be named, the days Of the month, and so on. And the medicines. And it’s like not being grown up anymore, Like being a fifty-seven-year-old child or something, The secret having leaked out again. No Name quite sticks. Wine and cider Taste like Chinese-restaurant tea. One has cobbled a kind of life together, The cloud and outlines of the sod Still glowing, longing to touch you with the fire That shapes us, then replaces us on the shelf.
Thus, we are more formal this year, can escape Certain confrontations, obtain the release of certain compromised acquaintances Without looking at what they may have become, foil the plans of a few Middle-echelon apparatchiks until the day that finally does come to rest, busily, At your doorstep. Put it into a clean jar. Save it from the time which Has been, without promoting it too far beyond the Venetian blind of that Future’s early demise, in which we saw ourselves prefigured dimly and what would Happen to us scattered all over the ground like bruised rinds.
O keep me with you, unless the outdoors Embraces both of us, unites us, unless The birdcatchers put away their twigs, The fishermen haul in their sleek empty nets And others become part of the immense crowd Around this bonfire, a situation That has come to mean us to us, and the crying In the leaves is saved, the last silver drops. Riddle Me Rainy days are best, There is some permanence in the angle That things make with the ground; In not taking off after apologies. The speedometer’s at sundown.