Poem #8

A gondola's indolent surge into the snub end of the lake.
I think I see the most interesting drake.
No really, I do.
It's terribly humid here.
Everywhere people are poised pointing, posing, facing, composing.
Ech, those static pairings, careful smilings. Can't you just be.
Let me look at you. Soft. And move a little. Don't freeze.
Why is it so boring?
We project into a future reaction, we are pre-bored?
We are already bored by the picture of you.

The empanadas man is closing up. Dusk scoots in behind the trees.
I try, but poetry bores me -- I'll get to the point.

I'm sitting here because it seems the lily pads have stayed out too long.
The man in the truck will arrest them. The leaves also must be contained.
This park has served long enough! I'm sitting here because the park is under
order to close shop, because the lily pads are demeaning to things that
aren't lily pads, because light hurts like thistles, because lettuce can't find a
place in the great museums, because I'd like the gondola to tip and the tourists
to drown, because no matter which way I turn, because when subway
evacuations happen we want our riders to be pregnant, so get knocked up, because I can't
take it anymore, because the soft light is too beautiful to bear,
because I can't leave and I have to get ready to go, because I can't believe it, because
I do believe it. Because your face, opened to me. Something felt so big. So I came to the park.