John Ashbery
The experience of writing you these love letters ...
Fences not concluding, nothing, no even, water in your eye, seeming anything
The garden in mist, perhaps, but egocentricity makes up for that, the winter locusts, whitened
Her hand not leading anywhere. Her head into the yard, maples, a stump seen through a gauze of bottles, ruptures--
You had no permission, to carry anything out, working to carry out the insane orders given you to raze
The box, red, funny going underground
And, being no reason suspicious, mud of the day, the plaid--I was near you where you want to be
Down in the little house writing you.
Though afterwards tears seem skunks
And the difficult position we in to light the world
Of awe, mush raging, the stump again
And as always before
The scientific gaze, perfume, millions, tall laugh
That was ladder though not of uncertain, innocuous truths, the felt branch--
To a ditch of wine and tubs, spraying the poster with blood, telegraph, all the time
Automatically taking the things in, that had not been spoiled, sordid.
