Reading Robert Bly/Suburban Conversations
had he time to read it before the tumor
had hustled his efficient, booming chemistry down to
frightened unexpected tears and bedrailings,
his wife waiting in the wings, praying.
Robert Bly, blond veteran of great wars,
replaced Nordic farmer,
imagined visionary of all
those things with kitchens attached.
The purchase had made the
cropped close curating cashier
wince in retaining her salesface, keeping
her attraction to complex
beauties while fumbling with apple's ring up app.
I want to tell her that
I already know men in flannels
don't share or fake their fixes,
not with us, not with our rites of passage.
Noticing this, but touching nothing.
Look at me,
I'll pretend to know your mind too.
Months later I'm reading soberly,
in the land of tasteless milks,
distinguishing another border
where fresh simplicity crosses into pine-knocking
territories of corn and man and christ
where again I have no place,
nor patience for their dismissive dodderings.
Fingering the mythic fuck,
still bored, bruised, but smiling.
