merci mr. olmstead


A_____'s in the mood for fancy food
And so am i.
In the corner of her eye
A little red bird hops from branch
to branch.
He is spying on our picnic lunch.
We are lounging in the air of fun in
the Temperate Gesture of the sun.

A blade or two abrades her thigh.
I dont want her. I want to be her.
Id like to slide into her cold white lines
And hide inside. All New York has come to
have lunch, and, it feels, to watch.

She launches off our picnic rock.
Supposing I have stared too long and
talked too much.
Supposing I revealed myself!
I finish up my own and follow A_____.
And now I’m in the gloom of sour self reproach.

(Sigh.
Tis the good goodwill of mr olmstead
Long Now Dead

That planted that big old tree
whose shade in kindness holds my face
and cloaks the hour.)