Unfastened

from The New Spirit October 12, 2007

~ John Ashbery

It is very early.
The heavens only seem to be in a state of ferment.
If one might choose to see them differently there would be
Peace at the outer fringes
For their reluctance is never far away
And harmony, by the same token, is never ruled out completely.

One can accomplish the thing quite quickly
And turn toward the ruled outside space
That defines our hesitations so majestically
Though negatively.

It is necessary to go forward completing
The gesture from the beginning of life
That was worrying its shape into the trees
All this time, as though that shape were responsible
For the many fluctuating situations that fill the air.

Ultimately only one continuous bell sound
Exemplifies the crowding around of
All the things that need getting done.
They fall away like memories of the seasons.

There is no staying here
Except to pause for a breath on the peak
That night fences in
As though the spark might not be extinguished.

My Father’s Head (in progress)

A cantelope, aged,
an olive stuffed,
sandpaper, stone,
shiny with sweat
and lightly burned –

beneath an old man’s immigrant hat
small-brimmed, a green fedora crushed
a NATO helmet, a Yankee cap –

this crystal ball head
held up with the past.

This sun between two distant hills,
this moon moving with me as the miles pass –
car window moon, full and distant –

Sings a low song. The miles pass.
Hums like an ocean. I bend to kiss
a thin film of grease with my dry lips.