SHE REMEMBERS NAPALM SUMMERS

she walks out the door, or up a hill
among a flood of lilacs:  her bed unmade,
burning pancakes on the stove.  she might let you
see her with her hair wet, eyes red
or even in a stranger's bedclothes:
you run out onto the balcony, cursing,
spitting, contemplating when and how far
then swift inertia:  horses riding westward:
clouds rolling into each other:  journeys are
navigated, transcribed, and truncated.

she remembers other times:  ancient holidays,
the surrender of the village, an imaginary jihad
and a marriage of two minds I barely circumspect alone.
sometimes she remembers foreign bedclothes,
sulking flannel, generous, dangerously close:
I remember the oceans still behind her eyes
the second before she woke,
blushing like a cat


* * * * * * * * * * * * *

MOUTH

behind the bridge 
the lights are set back 
like a cat's eyes 
and 

just down from here 
the water brings the oceans cold 

from points of a city 
which we can barely see. 

we should be tired by now 
having dreamed too long 

of paradise or birds 
or the bottle of smooth whiskey 

over the reflection of our faces 
that waits, that does not shift 
out of focus. 

the cat behind the bridge 
scampers off 
or closes its eyes 
when we turn away. 

your weary eyes 
bring parallel rumours 

of the city 
of nakedness 

of the rivers sleeping current 
and of the mouth of the river 

where we all were thoughtful peasants. 

and remember the herons? 
like drunken fingers 

they harken to the same melody every night 
like rocks 
slowly moving together 

they inch along the horizon waiting for us.