BLUEBELLS

Purple, in fact, they sprint up the length of our street
and back down through a pair of bicycle tires,
then run themselves to the ground amid the heat
of broken flag and flagstone and cement.
Sun turns them down. Air shakes them in their tiers,
correcting their posture, composing their migrant scent.

The bright albino squirrels
we saw again this morning make a sort
of couple, like Hepburn and Grant. Their last resort,
as they scramble around one another and around
their own mercurial tails,
becomes a cleft between two trunks, so dark
nobody could inspect it from the ground:

it could hold rubies, coded maps, a child.
Now that we’ve spent
a year on Fairmount Avenue, such heady sights remind
me less of balmy days in Central Park
and more of a rock star from Iceland, who lived in a tent
for a year in a climate-controlled New York apartment
in order to think of the wind, the cold, the wild.


AFTER CALLIMACHUS

Cover me quietly, stone.
I wrote verse. I meant little in life,
blamed few and injured none;
I tried to get along.
My writings kept me warm.
If I with my featherlight pen
confused prestige with worth,
praised evil, or ever wronged
the few who wanted a fight,
allow me, generous earth,
to do no further harm—
let me atone in my sleep;
I with my good will,
so lightly and often given,
who rest with nothing to keep,
and nothing to offer heaven.


SIX KINDS OF NOODLES

You would have to have been reading John Ashbery
to have seen anything like this in a book,
and yet here it is in real life:
an almost already intelligible tangle
of verities, and an intimidating menu,
disfigured, almost, by all the things you can have

at once, though all are noodles. Have
you, too, been trying to keep up with John Ashbery?
Every time I check there’s a new book,
another entry—entrée—on the menu
from which I seem to have ordered my whole life,
and been served somebody else’s. Don’t tangle

with waiters here is my advice; the rectangle
of mirrorlike soy sauce, the soba you have to have
and the udon you lack should suffice: the secret of life—
as you might have sought, or discovered, in Ashbery—
is what you get while you are waiting. Men, you
see, are mortal, and live to end up in a book,

though once you compiled and published such a book,
who would be left to read it? The latest angle
claims that it would be more like a menu,
an ashen, Borgesian checklist of all you could have
or have had to pay for, or suffer, or notice. Ashbery
could write that (I think it’s in Flow Chart). And yet the life

we long for in all its disorder is not a life
of so many tastes, nor of fame; more like one good book,
and ginger with which to enjoy it. Jeffrey Skinner’s poem entitled “John Ashbery”
and David Kellog’s “Being John Ashbery” both take the angle
that eminence is what matters. No. We have
had enough of fighting over the menu,

as if it were the main course; the omen you
seek, the bitter-lime tang of a happy life
to come, curls up amid the semolina or buckwheat you have
not chosen yet. Will it be prepared by the book?
Will it do for Kitchen Stadium? Its newfangle-
ness may be a virtue, Iron Chef Chen Kenichi, Auden and Ashbery

all suggest, though hard to find here without help from Ashbery:
it’s a problem with which I have tangled my whole life,
and I’m so hungry I could eat a book, though none are listed on this menu.

From Parallel Play. Copyright 2006 by Stephen Burt. All rights reserved.