(after T.S. Eliot)
You cannot live in Art,
they told him.
Don’t trust in those dreams.
The Lady of Shalott died
by that river, you’ll recall.
(So they insist on ruts
and the thousand deaths
of heart’s desire.)
Keep a clear heart
when forests burn down.
Hang on to stars
when all the maps are gone.
(A fool’s paradise beats
the coffins of convention.)
Who could efface
the red-flowering snow?
The miracle of running water
in a desert of mind?
Imagination’s insistence.
The movie-reel of Time
unloops like an obsession.
Cups of tea, a long afternoon,
the sun through lace curtains.
Measures of quietude,
the lovers’ discourse.
(I guess we all lived here once,
heard concertos in the park
and wondered if the band
would ever play for us.)
Ice and warm hands–
we carry on somehow
with what is left of forgotten love:
What could be and what was.
The garden asleep, its forever
keys for the finding.
