Reading One of Wright’s Notebooks
Hard not to wonder what
James would be thinking
of writing, walking
among tonight’s
masked strollers.
Bridge-to bridge.
Canal-to-canal.
What he would make
of those Venetian lovers
arguing over
if it was safe to sit out
for an hour
in the piazza.
Remembering,
the knee-walking
pilgrims he saw
earlier in the morning.
Pulling their way
to the steps
of the Basilica
of Santa Maria Gloriosa
dei Frari.
A mouthful, for sure,
he might have written
into one of his last
notebooks.
With what looks like
a stub of a pencil
golfers use to record
their scores. Truthfully.
Even when they have the urge
to ask God how sinful it is
to fudge a number.
Make themselves appear
better than what they are.
Reading Wright’s entries —
it’s a long story
how I came by them —
I’d only be guessing to say
this poet was also a golfer.
Even if I know how much
he suffered, at the end
of his life. Tongue-burned.
Almost speechless.
How much he loved
the words of Italy.
Its glass ballrooms and floods.
The images of Christ everywhere
he could find them.
The little and big Christs.
Porcelain and wood.
On a table next to the letter
openers and marionettes.
Candles and gold chains.
Paper and cloth masks.
Inside a church gift shop.
* * * * *
Heat Waiver
The government urges couples
to de-couple themselves.
Friends not to expect anything
precise
from each other.
Like dogs released from their obligations
to roll-over and beg.
The moon is a big mistake.
Especially in terms hard to understand.
Critical thinking is given one day
to go on vacation.
A big relief.
Like rain filling a glass slipper.
Town leprechauns wave their tiny
accordion fans.
Like hand-held devices.
One sentence believes in the next.
For old times sake.
Like a breeze walking in
from the impossible
ocean.
Personal climatologists are engaged,
encouraged.
Truth is a long way off
in the near distance.
The clouds, a marriage
of mirages.
There’s an argument
to be had.
Close at hand.
Promise me, you’ll walk on
my eggshells.
Be my government.
Whether or not
we’re together.
When fall pulls on its sweater.