Edward

            By Honor
Moore

            
               (posted Wednesday, Oct.
14, 1998)
            

            To hear the poet read
"Edward," click .

            The car, then he moves,
opening door suddenlyheavy, further into the warehouse night, orperhaps we
drive uptown, city darkening, leavingit all unsaid. You are thinner than ever.
We werechildren then really, my fast blue car, a beach,rooms in which you
placed objects with a gracethat flattered God. I was watching men, as you
were,swerving an old car out the dirt drive afteryou put guests to bed. On your
knees in prayernow, every day, fingers at the glands in my necklike every
gay man I know . Tweed and muffler, beardpatterned across a cheek. I
don't know howto get past this. In restaurant dark, friends movethrough our
conversation as if the past werea bright street. A mime's fingers. No one
makeslove, and this year there have been so many. Oh darling, old friend--of
beauty, of exuberantknowledge--turn as you close the door, take meas you did
then, a bouquet of lilac, a waltz.

            Days of rain until you
can't remember sun,breath on the mirror, brothers and sistersaround a New
England table. I was hungryfor what you gave, awkward in my
largeness: Delicate , you said, like a Victorian .Offshore, low
sound of horns in fog, but the pastcomes proudly forward. Who could have told
usit was the present we would find in ruins?You move across the street like a
cello soundingor like grief--you who travel the placeswhere the texts were
written, cross every floorlike a dancer. There is no wind. I want to hearyour
voice, ask how you are. Behind the atticwall: milk, cookies, late night talk of
bookor film. It's as if someone purposely disturbedthis: a brook runs loud in
spring, you live herewith a boy who builds paper castles. I woresilk, you
carried French luggage. Who could seeit was our future we would find in
ruins?

            Don't be
ridiculous! How would I phrase it?Is your blood poisoned? Or: What is it liketo
sit in a beautiful room waiting it out?There are ten of us here, bent, moving,
showingsigns of life, and the sky outside is near gray.Thursdays, they cut the
grass. Either I travelor stay home. Who are we to each other? I mean,when you
dream figures on a road, am I everone of them? You put the key in a car
door,then drive a hundred as if we are lovers.That house: stones painted white,
the desert, dustrising from the driveway, a lizard scuttles upa whitewashed
wall, we dine with a blackhaired womanfrom Boston. One might argue we knew
nothingof love. Were the trees willows? Yes, andyou showed me plants that grow
a hundred yearsno matter how dry the ground. What is it I circlelike a plane in
weather, or a wooing husband?You're falling away, darling, aren't you?
Slowly.