|
The French Don’t Have a Word
for Weekend 
An orange barge of clouds
abandons its mooring,
the moon—
only half, all we need.
The hurricane, by now
merely gesture,
drags a final scarf
across Long Island
with all the significance
of a faded movie queen.
Daylit waves
remind us she was here,
while on the next blanket
salty gossip effervesces,
linking the habits of el ni�o
and a tawdry party.
We are other things moving—
in this case, inland,
taking afternoon with us, sand
on the floor of the car.
It’s too late
by the time we notice
how short the days
have become—
a lewd hand
pats the ass-end of summer.
And one of Chagall’s goats
is coaxed by torchlight
from the patterned blues
at the bottom
of a pool,
where he is dancing.
|
