Glosses on texts by William Desmond
Sitting by the win-
dow, staring down the cold New
England sun, I sing
to myself about
the High Sierra, sunny
granite outcrops where
I’d sit as the birds
ignored me. O, unborn com-
panion, secret,
nameless, not myself,
a patience, a poverty,
say idiotic,
some say autistic,
and when the poem flows song
and name flash as one.
No Sphinx need guard the
books open on the table. They
maintain the silence
where the poem starts.
W. S. Graham, Alice Oswald,
others. They are in
communication
with their equals on the shelves.
A democracy
of sorts. We people,
left to ourselves, lose patience
with others’ silence.
When you died sweetly
demented you blew a bloom-
sized hole in my world.
Another turning
point. Whitherto now loosened
oak leaves withering?
Molasses amber
water-starved and released to
humid human fists.
We must open our
hands to hold the passing of
beauty as we pass.
It’s the lack of why
that is beauty’s final gift
as we let it go.
Community of
festive finitude in the
glare of a fall day.
Kickass Gen Z black
leather and echo of boots
on the tearoom tiles.
In Natty Bumppo
sneakers I dance in my chair
to her boots’ tatoo.
It’s cold out there and
I see only colors out
the steamy windows.
Appearances count
more in old age as opposed
to moralities.
Beauty survives sex.
I’d like to be known for that
maxim. Time-server
that I am. Restless,
too, as change-charged Eros shapes
every present.
When I said ‘No rush’
to the barista today,
I heard your voice. It’s
a fine Fall day, change
in the yellow air, people
trying to be nice.
Your voice had an edge,
not a part of the quaint scene.
But no one noticed
other than I. I
just sat there, waiting. It took
forever to come.
‘Where’s Dad?’ I ask. ‘Oh,
out in the garden,’ Mom says.
The iris limp flags
in the autumn air
blowing in from the ocean.
Dad deadheads them one
last time. The salt air
from the Pacific reminds
me: Lead your own life.
