Mark DuCharme
from Here, Which is Also a Place
"America's wandering away from me
in a dream of pine trees and clouds"
— Frank O'Hara
Sunlight on pine Hymn chimes in windy Opulence, sun strewn, Blossoms' scent thick in air ~ A terrain is its own mind It is a song pointed willfully It is something you must "cover"— but how? Carrying the dirt of earth on your soles ~ Nothing But the day Until it's night ~ What memories rattle In the map you have made Map you have put yourself into? Does one wander in a map? It is often difficult to refold, or find A location such as 'G-4' in relation To the ledge on which you are now standing In afternoon's slight heat With a broad map in the wind now rattling ~ All over Is desire A gossamer Connector Precondition Of animal life Over sea & Land Where we stand Idle mammals § In this place of trespass Where we stood As if meadow were a garment A concordance of the senses Jammed into location At the ridge, where you clamber To eke out a habitat Where we settle, naturally— A place where we can touch & hear The racket of birds' wings In the rhythm of empathic glances Tearing up the future To root in dry earth In this place where we are trespassers & With all the windows shaking § Here, or clods of them Draining the atmosphere Of its mirth— Draining our departure Of its knowingness— Draining earth Of yellow surprise. When you are surprised, Enter the garden, Put your weight on A daffodil. Daffodils cannot weep, We presume, & so we think Them merry— Laugher of color & form— Little knowing What they feel, Until shadow-flowers Weep at the sun. § If you study exhaustion, it will laugh at you, Clog your sentences with unneeded Syllables, & Grimace at your stammer. If you invite Exhaustion to your gala dinner, It will yank devices from the belts Of the confused. If you incite Exhaustion, it will descend on you, Making you lisp & quiver. You can't quote Exhaustion, for its speech is intolerable, Even to itself. Exhaustion hovers At the perimeters of meetings, reciting Memos to the confused. Exhaustion can't live here Or anywhere but on your back & Neck, driving its weight into Your muscles' depth, & Overhanging your brow Magisterially, as if one of Baudelaire's Own "crushing chimeras" Of whose burden, the bearers— dim Men lurching— seem Preternaturally unaware. § Being here, or given To the mirth of not standing In the way of whatever Else is at hand If we intend anything It is to smirk A little longer 'Til clouds get grayer In the effortlessness of place inscribing Dusk unto discovery Dirt into the seed devising Its own birth from whatever Else is at hand