Mter a century of crepuscular skies,
boldly inflexible iguanas
with tongues the color of ginger lilies,
ospreys off course, young boys
fighting the surf red with seaweed,
cane fields uproarious in flames,
nights sticky with the scent of molasses–
again the dream he cannot help but dream:
the endless cumulus of the currents,
the ocean suddenly thickening,
the sun caught in the air rising from his lips.
JAY ROGOFF
The Vessel
It's hard to conceive; I'm conducting research:
the top candidates are cosmic light rays,
some word raking hell through the universe,
a magic seed, or, in the joke a drunk French
priest once told me, "C'etait le pigeon,Joseph."
Picture it in a flask, like the old Pyrex
stomach where Rolaids used to neutralize
our belly's sins. It's not the purest image,
this cockeyed gnos tic gynecology.
Still, her carriage in that heavy crown and dress,
the oceanic patience in her face,
and the calm finger that holds off for later
her book's climax, which she knows she'll get to,
confide her love can bear the world and me.
