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After James Schuyler
After summer, crestfallen, is it
the clarity of Saturday?
All inky light and buff
grass underfoot.
Quarter past eight
and the moon waxes familiar,
hawk eyed. Let us puddle
into something
vague and mercurial.
Reach the small mushroom
village sufficient enough
for what’s awake. Tomorrow
will recall the bees that June,
always full of promise,
a hum amid the bramble
and leaves in their inhibition.
Schuyler talks of a fifth season,
his secret. My left, your right.
It was blustery out
when I came in from the rain.
You looked at me
like worn sandals.
You spoke of deadlines,
wine, and piano music.
But all I could think of
was a dog running
without a leash.
Someone naming their band
Butthole Surfers 2.
It’s similar but different.
I looked at the room,
all cattywampus. Trimmed
the dracaena. Was it
dying? The leak
in the ceiling grew
colossal. I watched
the vibes cling like cellophane,
the laundry in mid-spin.
I had wasted my life.
Here’s to our health!
Twitter: @brustalistruck
IG: @buffalowing66
