Just Below the Adirondacks

You prefer the visions of the gardens with the venders in sight
The Adirondack chairs that are still for sale outside the barn
with a few early stars opening to a New England down town
If we weren’t at war I’d think that this poem had permission
to have a few oranges strung about it. Out of our navels
Come the blue organs. Come the nice book stores that you might
find this poem in. The floor boards creaking a little as the
many shoes step and pass, a girl who should be the next Carrie St.
George Comer stops by. And through the pie and coffee
and sometimes tea words sparkle like the dotted lights
in the harbor. One by one the rowers row their fragile blades
downward into a sea in hopes to sully something more generous
like tiny white twigs, or elusive shoals of wolves until something smaller
caves in. We are all reading and reading nothing pasted. Not even a noteboard
with things happening, happening, have happened or ending soon.