Lines Written in Late Summer, Somewhere between Raworth and Larkin

  for Mark Havryliv
  
  
  Of course, it’s autumn
  really—that just makes 
  the sun-patch more 
  intense in rarity—and poetry 
  is that which cannot otherwise 
  be said                                                        
  
                                  it’s not  
  just that vase, Philip—here’s an 
  earnest phalanx: fragile, piece-
  meal on the mantle. Leanig 
  too far forward. Fingering 
  the dust, I muse: it would 
  have left Keats spoilt for choice 
  had he possessed my heart 
  for retro-kitsch  
  as truth
  
                      the beach salt 
  licking lips while washing  
  up; this half-familiar house is  
  camphored, left at times for 
  weeks enfolded in 
  the heavy lids of Christ 
  in every room. Palms 
  and pussy-willows tucked 
  behind the frames—this dry 
  pastoral proves beliefs 
  will not be shed 
  in nascence or decay                                            
  
                              the oldest 
  past’s packed up for Sunday 
  use, or propping newer 
  pasts; a wireless 
  holds a Lego farmyard 
  holds 
  a collared shirt that’s holding 
  traces of my perfume 
  in its folds that, filled out, 
  held me / holds my                                          
  
                        life now 
  too in slow drops falling  
  on this otherwise  
  still pond / a total  
  
  stays contained.  
  Until the snap 
  of gloves off. History, blue 
  barrel of a Parker in its face, 
  
              is
  
                                    blown
  
                                             away
  leaving
  
             only
                              sunlight
  
  on                a
  
                                                      sink