summer notebook

this is the first thing i have written all year, be patient with me, be patient as a pickle.

for: sjgd. 



a cloud white moon above the
hay shed and
    the sky slouching 
 either side, never darkening—
        it was all i could do to witness
the yellow jaws of wheat munch
our summer away

 i ran as if  commanded to
lungs contracting into
 pulp knocking against my door-teeth
  not looking back into the empty street of

summer? lovely summer 
                       stench of green eggs
and trips by foot down straight paths
stench of trucks and the long white 
arm of sun looking to fight - constant
                pimp of hot flesh
  stench of bread and cheese and 
melon, was it really so? sitting under
 the tin roof when you came back for
me full of nerves 
 dry leaves making a hollow bell
& cigarette making me friendly 

we took our muzzles off
by the dirt crossroads, tanned and
 bleating about every tomorrow

                       after dinner, cooling
of hot air, we sat down to it.
who’s out there? red book on the table
 black pencil, yellow vegetable –
 the pain of loss and the pain of
possibility were holding hands, kissing,
we looked away and –
 for each other, uneasy living
inside two months, dawn shedding her
skin before the swelling became

unmanageable. ice. in the?
water. i know you are –
my love – you are
 the one pierced
through and i am the one bent low
trying to peer into your eyes – if the light
had not mutilated the clouds like that 
perhaps the june beetles would not
swoon and die and if only you would come
back quickly –
                                       yes!
 that’s the man, there! poised now
 for a minute in my
kitchen wearing shirt sleeves 
with his collar open and 
the marble column of his throat
 throwing bricks at me before getting back
on the bus

           there in your other life you 
lived in a furnished room and 
walked through the wet golf course
 with my letters in your pocket and
cigarette glowing large as
   an attic

I think our letters grew legs and took 
each other out for lunch!


and the ones who did not want to 
ride a country bus instead rode a white
horse into some secret place we couldn’t
see them anymore and if only they 
could be heavy copper
 rings to wear around your neck well it
would all feel the same

 – summer blue 
as trees while i slept mostly alone
naked under rotating stars or else stood
behind spellbound cows while the 
channels dragged themselves across
red heel land 

but the night is coming 
down hard into chimneys, sam. it is 
terrible to stand beside you with 
skin holding us 
apart – i am separate
 from you – i have these afternoons 
and these mornings when you’re gone
  a red, strong
stain on my cheek where you
 have kissed me, little
love, silver flute in my flesh, who
i cannot always follow but
 when the
time arrives, would he follow me
into places far less gigantic? can

you still not sleep, sam?
i cannot sleep either – that handsome 
cockerel in the field is
too noisy, don’t you think? i’ve got
to tell you i am a stranger with
more pillows
hidden inside my pillow as we 
turn against each other
    to each other
    for each other – the way we 
have come is all we can
 see and its pressing
our heads against a wall, ashamed
that there is so much still to 
   laugh about –

 early bruises of watery
light are just starting
 to bloom from
 a colder, gooseberry
sun. come here, come here! he would
shout when i was too far away - he had
been dangling his big feet over a 
     broken speedboat for long enough this
summer -

there is a small
 breakfast of hot nights
 left, if you are still
hungry? i’m hungry because
 it’s not over – 
blue ashes loose under bare feet
eyelashes splashing around
  playing catch – one ringlet
of autumn curls now
 around my small ear as i sit and
write to you – below it sits
 a pearl who waits only for vienna

so, let me be wherever you are right
now unless you overtake
me in which case –
go on! and the turning
world, like a beast
 strong and quick, will bow down 
for those that are dying – no more
death for you, sam, there are 
too many prizes left – and many 
un-cancelled
outdoor summer concerts under a 
grainy violet sky holding my
secret hand and

      i’m sorry the bales 
of your left-over touch 
sat near hungry animals the entire
summer and remained uneaten. don’t remind me
what happened next when i was the one
face down below the fan for the final days
of black summer 

    and nick called to say – he knew it all along
from the way i looked at you in the jazz bar
a long way down our street – a bullets
distance away from the kitchen
stove – that afternoon
with frank and madeleine also –
i was never going to mexico – “you would
never leave sam” he said – well there's
not much light left now
across the tasman sea, nick
 and february might let go of me soon 
it will be quite a long time before i see you


 i think sam and me should
rest in the ease of empty 
mornings
 for a while and the work
will follow, it will look like
 golden armour in a dark
snowy woods when we've half
starved to death and begun eating
each other      or worse
(our letters)           and i almost 
dance with happiness to think of what 
will soon be asked of us, of you 
and me; if i step out of my 
body i might break into roses

can you see our new home in the blue
distance yet? although the dust 
is fatty like a lamb galloping over
 hills— it is difficult to see through it -
past it - over it -


     –  take care, she said –
only love the man who is
sure – oh, i said. oh, 
i will – and, she didn’t say – as i walked
out the door for two years – but i’m sure
she meant – you are as
 young as the blue bird is young, so –
sam, what else can i tell you but 
wait just a moment longer in the white
 room facing north 
where the taxi cabs and green
trams zip on tight across 
brunswick street, where the slap
 of painting is slow to arrive and
hopefully
gentle – the moon a bandage 
across your gifted, artist’s face – 

we have done well i think
 a horse can’t
carry his father on his 
back but you can
 and all summer i was 26 and
bored, my need to be worn
away like a top hat, I see it 
perfectly – both of us
confusing hunger with greed
  
the blue birds more blue than
heaven are not choking
 in my hands below 
your window anymore, i grab instead
summer’s fist of burial fire and squeeze till
 it cries – no more
ashes, the tap tap tap of a grey
drum begins 
to drop day petals, it’s okay
because it’s raining which means the
worst is over so i’ll just
 lie around in a narrow 
bed and see that the smallest 
stars are children who 
play among 
 mandolins eating fresh
lemons. i feel i know exactly
what lies ahead –

– i have come
 for you, are you ready to go, the glass tubes
in my head are filled with every colour
you've ever imagined
             are you ready for me, heart, 
heart, sam, heart   – i do not live without you
       who is lovely as bubblegum and
pale white flowers –

are you ready to go?