More Like Montpelier
nth triggered sunset, tripwire 7 PM,
capriccio flourish of darkness
I always wrote to you about, yawning.
Fractures of grackle
& phone wire angle,
furnishing the skyward scenery well-
enough for God, that flat pleasure
steaming through stuccod weepwinds.
Here, aesthetics well-
avoid most of Platos
ideals: kitsch plastic vines,
bistros red checkers, lazy-susans
offering with dynamic robotix
an assortment of oil and ointment.
Never like this in my mind.
Spelling bee kids minds. Or more
accurately, geography kids minds,
those who knew it was a state capital
and laughed up milk on fiberglass trays.
Have you heard? Id ask. Factorial quotas
spawned new four-pocketed models. Theyre sharp.
One pocket for pea combos, one for salads
and for the
others, porkish saltdrizzlebut
its hard to hear myself hear you tell me to ask
whether its lake-effect romance or sanguine & perfumed,
the kind before pornographers made us look at trees differently.
Here, I dont notice too much.
Mostly I talk to snow, asking for directions.
I wear lamps in snow storms, looking for sleep.
Parks are empty. Bricks are washed. Birds, none.
What I know of your sleep: weeds, sprig-wheeze.
You told me: resigned in the window, arms crossed,
cigarette. I saw this from the lawn and wondered,
wondering what is it I cannot afford here.
Ethan Paquins first book of poems, The Makeshift, was recently released in the U.K. He edits Slope and Slope Editions and teaches at Medaille College in Buffalo, New York.
Originally published in the October/November 2002 issue of Boston Review