The line in which I wait
exudes a late summer stagnance,
a stinking immobility.
Yet, here, where California
boldly dips its greedy paws into
the lint-lined pockets of the people,
amid a whirl of named and numbered
forms which would titillate
the most dispassionate
and ennervated bureaucrat,
some unsought stimulus,
a waft of body odour or perfume,
the cut of some strangers jib,
some delicious deja vu sends me
( a dutiful donkey ambling
after the dangled carrot)
toward the recollection finer
of a (probably post-Bergman) dream.
Someone was, calmly,
some Norse tongue speaking
and I could, crazily, comprehend.The voice was tremulous
with bewitched resignation...
" Your language, I must admit,
remained intact throughout.
It never veered. Not once.
You remain wonderfully wrought,
free from any encompassing,
defining or predictable positions.
It's truly artful."
The dream heroine's
reactive mouth revealed little,
something delicious, perhaps painful
played and lingered at the corners,
having escaped or successfully seduced.
Returning to the tedium
of State levied fines and fees
I shuffle forward a foot
and wonder whether
I'll ever leave my Platonic cave,
the carefully guarded,
shadow-throwing fire that
keeps the sickly rime at bay
and simply walk out
into the blinding sun?
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