TIM BRADFORD

 

Edition

And then it was only four days
left until summer.
Spring had been devoured

by the succulent cannas:
'Bengal Tiger,'
'Minerva' and 'Miss Oklahoma.'

Couples on swings, naked,
in the dark,
and Watteau's painting, too, hung

on the horizon, large, like
a horse.
The days were that long

and desirable. Again. The miracle
of cucumber and
butter on bread at break-time

again. And no one threatened to bring
the pick-axe down
on his head, least of all him. We

were almost gallant. After all,
gas prices were
falling, humpbacked whales

returning. Capistrano unveiled, a full
contralto. Even
the dead Dutch brother got a petal

on the Asiatic Dayflower. In a day sale
at the dollar store,
I thought it all had stopped,

but that turned lubricious and joined
in too, you see.
No hiding place, she said

before returning to Orthodoxy and oil
painting in the Balkans.
Ghosts on the court where we

played fell behind. Not
a zone but one-
on-one. And cross-checking

for good measure. Maestro.
My mistress. "Misterioso."
Matisse will not be home for dinner.

We cut spring out without
him. Happy
accidents of the swing.