Poetry |

“Reading One of Wright’s Notebooks” and “Heat Waiver”

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.

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