Alex Chambers |
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All Those Mornings Leaving the house I had planned to pick up some bread But a winter squall came up and I was tossed Into the clouds and rained off the South Carolina coast. As I left I was going to say God bless, But you were on the ladder hanging mistletoe and the hole In the left heel of your vermilion stocking Caused once again the lusting song of shepherds and tabors To spring from my inarticulate step. I meant to trim the arbor vitae, But the hedge-clippers were complaining of overuse. I take such exclamations seriously. I gave them a rest. Before dawn, with a ton of luggage, I was blinded by a great and sudden light. I refocused and climbed into the cab. Leaving the house, I paid our taxes. Leaving the house, I ended up on the street. I walked down the front steps, waving Goodbye and goodbye, And in the rear window of my darkest glasses You raised to your ear the telephone in Paris, saying Yes, my pet—milk, prosciutto, and the ripest of the treetops. When I shut the door with a click A manatee paddled up to offer a lift in his pellucid bark. It took us to Shutesbury and Timbuktu. Not until I sang the ache And burn in my heart for your busy breast and cheek Did it call navigation and take me to work. Leaving the house, I bumped Into an old girlfriend. We opened a joint account. On the concrete walk I ran out Of batteries and toppled over, One leg twitching skyward. The Bolsheviks came by with their hoes and petitions. I signed One and took up the other. We seized control Of the means of production before catching the westbound bus. As I left the house, I felt inexplicably refreshed. The crowds swept me up. The desert put me down. I gathered a posy of rhododendron And bottled a catch of fish. I pocketed a song from the queen of Siam. I walked the ocean back. |
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