Sanford Fraser
(USA)
Lying in bed this morning
in and out of sleep
I wake up years ago with you.
Is that your voice laughing?
Wait. Don’t stop. Don’t go.
Snow is falling outside
filling the room with light.
Come here. Together
bound tight, our separate selves
will fall away, before
before this winter returns
a pigeon on the sill
no other voice.
At my desk
my legs are numb as stone
my head, stuffed with words
I stop reading
see myself running at the shore
feel hot sand beneath my feet
cold waves breaking, over my head.
Il ne me suffit pas de lire que les sables des plages sont doux ;
je veux que mes pieds nus le sentent.
André Gide, Les nourritures terrestres
Elevated
above the honking street
the train lifts me
in my gray suit.
Below the track
a biker zooms
through traffic.
My hand twists the throttle.
My elbows cock
like wings in black leather.
Happy Hour
In front of the Riviera Café
a layer of sand
softens the sidewalk.
5 beach umbrellas spread shade
on the metal tables.
Near the curb
a fake lifeguard stand
overlooks 7th Avenue.
I sit with my gin & tonic
waiting for something to happen.
Waves of traffic roll by
or slam to a halt
at the light.
Is that you on the N°10 bus?
I see the wide door opening
feel the soft tar give
below my feet.
In the bar a piano plays ragtime
the notes splashing
through us.
You’re here.
We’re at the seashore.
In My Garden
In my garden
I’m always shaved
and fully dressed
the tree always trimmed
the hedge clipped
each flower labeled
with its Latin name
a Bachelor’s Button
(Centaurea cyanus)
in my lapel
everything fixed
on display
laughter and children
strictly forbidden.
Where’s Love? you ask.
Next to me
in the white evening gown
the mannequin
immaculate
and thin.
Macho
I see his face
everywhere:
on tv
in the street
a wooden face
that’s like a wall
without windows
the eyes turned
inward
stalking
me.
Sometimes I want
to be him :
wear a new T-Shirt
carefully torn
use the latest drug
drive a Harley
turn on
a leather girl
fit her to me
like a glove.
Plastic Man
Through the window
the sidewalk of trash bags spills
into my room
plastic bottles roll beneath the bed
giant waves of them flow
into the kitchen.
I shut my eyes, then open them —
the bottles are still here
my Cheerios, everything I eat
tastes of plastic.
I swallow, digest it
my face, my smile
my words are plastic
I’m indestructible.
They
They march in single file
along the fashion highway
super-thin models
their faces frozen.
For awhile, you’re up there
with them
detached:
your hips bouncing back & forth
to the hip-hop beat
your eyes shouting to the applause:
Look at me.
Don’t look at me.