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Like the Japanese

Make for me inside an insouciance with your wonder,
And I will build for you with my muscles,
And these things I say which are steam engines,
And organic turbines; Do not let your eyes become instead
The blunders of the richly accessorized middle-classes,
Do not say those things which are readily understood and
Manageable, but instead ride with me to Mars,
This sort of amusement park made out of fire-axes and
Other pigments given to indigenous holidays. That is what I
Said: Make this life into an aqueduct, a prevalence of my
Scars hung with tinsel, your lips blowing the sawdust of such
Carpentry, your nails newly painted black and draped against
My cheek like the human brand of peacock; Or come with
Me to my grandmother’s grave and let us worship there like
The Japanese, let us spread origami like our bodies, into new
Shapes for Christmas, and let us not mind the way the snowflakes
Drift indefinably unique like little Chalets floating through a
Francophone space, or let us ride away from this back through
The vanished sea the mountains attend, as carefully as explorers
Approaching the epileptic fissures through the persimmon trees.
They grow wild here where there are just words blown like
Ashes out amidst the bicycles of each of their careworn students,
And the ladies who exercise readily dreaming of their inevitable
Motherhood and what fine kitchens, like bosomy Popes
In a suburban Rome, they should first graduate and then soon attend.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
Added by Poetry Lover
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