Ne wot how that he quyteth folks hir hyre,
Yet happeth me ful ofte in bookes rede
Of his miracles, and his cruel yre.
Chaucer, The Parlement of Fowles
thus, Annie, our story’s opening, like the covers,
sexy, like a garden gate swung;
sexy, ah, as abecedarian shrubbery.
& June it was because this is a poem—
a funny thing—it was, too, June,
I remember, Face, we left the room I remember
as shelf upon shelf, boards under volumes almost moaning,
left to walk in shade, yes, amongst leaves:
magnolias, lilacs, ashes, the whole encyclopedia,
tulip poplars, crepe myrtles—into which
if we could turn, we’d turn out.
Annie, don’t turn the page, leaf through this;
because day to twilight turned like a page turned.
This prolegomenon, stroll under blossoms,
Face, this must be our life,
a romance, us, typical & self-conscious,
us, Amiga, romantically dressed
as black dress, jacket, tie, inked us in,
life to walk in the city park or Miss Text’s garden.
& into what could we turn ourselves
amongst, Annie, these literal & adolscent trees,
these posies lining, versifying the sidewalk?
We’re poets, too, I’ll make this up to you. &
branches, volumed, limned, we read between them,
branches, cursive, uppercase, italicized, like
spelt it out: love’s a love story.
Annie, that’s what I meant to say,
an apology—away, away with words!
This must have been, under unhappy cedars,
Amiga, our life… Let’s make up…
which was when, in pain, like a first kiss risked,
we both, as I recall, to evergreens turned,
as evergreens, Face, to pages turn,
as pages turn for us. Thus blooming to romance,
Annie, our life’s now an open book,
leaf upon leaf turned—so green,
so green we remained amongst, like in context,
magnolias, crepe myrtles, poplars; & were sexy.
From this green world, though, how come home?
Mr Mythographer, can we get directions
to Annie’s room where bookshelves almost moan?
Trees got carved with names. Why not
come with me between the covers, Face, sexy text?
LoveMakingBook, 2