Sometimes the wind
of a fresh warm April
blows a strange town
into sinking afternoon.
Houses make quiet agreements,
settle into their new locations,
even if askew and a bit jumbled.
Trees darker than usual trees
spread against the real sunlight.
I wait for this unknown town
to conjure up its own gravity.
And soon the doubling dusk
shades my eyes like dark glass --
a green drunken bottle melted.
Several people talk on porches
made of stone with rough arches,
swings hanging from hempen rope.
They don't see me standing here
eavesdropping on their murmurring.
They don't see me when this town
gets blown in wind on top of April.
A man slowly plucks ridiculous notes
on his rosewood teardrop mandolin --
random notes as if a wanton butterfly
were dragging a dry heirloom petal
across strings to breezing pulses.
But the wind has gone to sighs,
and a greenish dusk is settling.
The woman wears a silken scarf,
her dark hair flowing like laughter.
She shakes her head laughing gayly,
as he tells her of a bittersweet time...
when he mistook a boisterous parade
for a celebration of his one big dream
that ended in glory before he woke.
This place is becoming almost real.
The streets are canals of boullion water.
Gondolas pass steered by secret men --
men who know where they are going.
Their suave oars are rowing the literati
to a serious play premiering this night
in a theater built on undiscovered ruins.
Their silhouettes somehow hurt me.
So I wish to simply linger here
and listen to this pair a-sparking.
He has an audience of one soul
who cares enough to laugh gayly.
Their silhouettes somehow please me.
Copyright 2011 -- Tim Buck