Soup with You Stirring

Soup with you stirring as if to
say, “This and no more.” Over your
shoulder, out the window, bursts of cloud
move forward as if folk songs about
departure propelled them on. Nowadays the Impasse 
is reached at breakneck speed. Seconds after
the Spell, the Loved One descends into
a valley of rock, slobbering, solitary. “So
little time have I,” says the comet,

crushed at Christmas time and strung up on 
the evergreens. Time pushes what needlework I 
strain to achieve so the tapestries become 
rough napkins for the stew. Sad record
on. Cruel disc and the needle that
plays with us all. Shortness of breath
and Manhattan clamor. Eau de cologne hanging. 
Soup with you stirring. The other hand
free for a valedictory. Spoon pushing off

like an oar. Goodbye. I will marry
the laundress in the 19th century print
in the hall. I will marry the
caterpillar in the fur coat on the
patio. I will marry Jesus. I expect
him anyway to appear and rephrase everything, 
to hand out new maps and compasses,
set the table, fill the empty bowls
and pray, let the wilderness end somewhere.

copyright 1987 by Harry Kondoleon

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