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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

AFTER THE PARTY, by                    
First Line: And so the others were the first to leave


and so the others were the first to leave
their mouths opening toward cricket-sleep and I'm
still here separating a bunch of flower stems
to make each believable to the light,
this impossibility of turning back
the flooding minutes the droplets swelling
along the ruined paths of descent,
but what's it all worth
after the fall. And yet we're fearless here,
face to the wall
stifling her mouth when she calls
and calls from the bed
or bathroom. Every night like this.
It's a trick, this arrangement
flashing again and again before my eyes,
an exhausting fight, tearing things apart,
always on a taut wire performing
a difficult exercise that inevitably opens
a different wound or hope.
It's a game, a duel
an old refrain I can't resist,
romantic loitering and all its weakness,
I'll never be cured of this disease.
I set the alarm, take it easy, just
a minute and I'll get back to you.
Nothing to feel happy about --
thing happen that you don't recognize
right away or on the spot,
who would have said it this morning
the cat stone dead,
belly up, and all in one night:
I still have the scratch on my hand
that he gave me (joking?) yesterday,
I look again at the scratch,
this sneering incrustation,
this little Burri
on my left hand.
See, it doesn't take much and I'm off travelling again,
it's already a lot if poetry brings you
whenever you like
the time and strength to live for
just one moment. So come to bed, it's late.


Used by permission of Story Line Press.




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