(for Philip Seymour Hoffman)
From Cooperstown
the curtain billows past,
sighs soft songs and dust
of distant tennis scores
which no one understands,
just sitting, moving ancient toys
on patterns in the rug.
Quiet!
He is distracted
by the creaking parquet floor.
Vermilion, madder, scarlet, rose
carmine cinnabar, geranium, red
persimmon ruby, rouge cerise
lips now gone to others
kissed and needing love
we unreel reality in waves
from distant shores particular.
Now, if youu can save a piece
let the rest be silences
musical space.
Hah!
Unsatisfied?
Count the extremes,
glib, dandy worshippers
tie fruit on trees.
Be frank,
whose headache do you feel?
Is every whinny innocent?
Who's surreal?
Little radios at the beach
half heard in unknown languages
lap our darkest caress
with ripples of laughter.
Infinite curtains billow
and all the grandfathers
you can imagine
hover over spilled blocks.
The great juggernaut,
an infinite snowball, rolls
picking up everything
lifting attached poets
who run beside, crying
hanto yo, make way
make way.
—Daniel Potter
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