The River Replaces by Gillian Conoley

The river replaces, the willow drags

a horseless rider caparisoned in red

glides over the gravestones.

Velvet is the integument I’d hope for for night.

Our doors are unlonelied

in the most diaristic indulgence, Death comes unexpectedly

and so you sure better

knock, and in a magnitude of scales.

The most full-flooded four-color process awaits

   there when I have time “for myself”

and cannot render it.

I had to guess “this was happening” said

   one self to the other

who self same said as the original broke

through the dream hole of the second,

and hurled its relapse into a momentary

aquaintance who ground significance with a tired pestle

until my sleepy lover woke.  I had to shade the place

just so.  Heaven it’s heaven said it’s heaven

pure heaven the self hands heaven’s print-out

across a warm booth to another:

Heaven:  Example

The heaven is without description.
Put them in one and the old will rage in a canoe.

Heaven was splashes of color

casually tossed from ecstacy to mania

so seeing had to become habitual,

seeing was certain films we could not look at,

films of commingstance.   Might as well

bury me ’neath the blurry white oleander

crowding the pear tree near the family house

in its unassailable wedlock:     personlock:     what

    alchemy of emotions

to accompany speech

and bit o’ pain.

A grave is goodbye last ditch so long see you again, adieu.

Always within earshot, actuality becomes you.

We needed the rain.

Indoors I worked like the crow, the phone rang.

I worked at it,

and the whole time I could hear you,

you didn’t have to scream.

Here is a dark suit and tie.

Appearance illumines.

Please write to me on a bed of ease.

Appearance forgets it like an egotist.

Fathom thee.

copyright Gillian Conoley, previous published in Jacket


%d bloggers like this: