Thursday, January 28, 2016

Robert Verdon (edited by Kate McNamara), #30, Manuka 2015


i

glass rain … drops and clinks
from a crêpe-paper evening
like exclamation marks, like
gloves of mauve velvet, they glitter
while under my head as I drive
is a mountain, a pillow, others
walk in Manuka in spike heels
(as I reminisce, how they claimed at school
that there was a brothel next to Pellegrini’s,
a café where you would ask for a
cup of coffee with two spoons)
so many thoughts, they are
unclassifiable, they are bright real estate, they are
shiny cars slowing by stately old houses

ii

pink carnations of taffeta trifle
precious as, prettier than truffles
dangle from gold-rimmed ’20s eaves
as rifled lightning strikes the hidden
lake, pungent as bee-balm
lively as a mirror on a ripple
or a worm dodging a bird in an apple

iii

no waiting for the frogs

iv

hold tight
the skiff is slippery
a thin white sausage
in a membrane of river
a breath of new-mown bread
on the gamine gale

v

dry-nose dog days
in the wire-netting factory
heady as a high, dead chicken
crystal-set nights
in a pickling jar
but I am daydreaming
and the rain is fake;
the high heels pitter-patter, glitter-glatter
glance, and
sift like a mistral
the nation is a sinking whale
I park beneath an oafish moonbeam
wondering at the stars
the evening is a greasy soup-spoon
in a soupçon of glinting gin
figure-coruscating with bated breadcrumbs
in a missionary sky
I am so tired and happy, that
everyone I pass as I skitter by,
scarf fluttering like Isadora’s,
— especially the girl with the nougat eyes
and kaleidoscope breath —
looks well-pleased.
And the glass rain
tinkles like those wind chimes and glass louvres
of infancy

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