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| James Tate |
(1967)
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| Flight (For K.) | ||||
| like a glum cricket the refrigerator is singing and just as I am convinced that it is the only noise in the building, a pot falls in 2 B. The neighbors on both sides of me suddenly realize that they have not made love to their wives since 1947. The racket multiplies. The man downhall is teaching his dog to fly. The fish are disgusted and beat their heads blue against a cold aquarium. I too lose control and consider the dust huddled in the corner a threat to my endurance. Were you here, we would not tolerate mongrels in the air, nor the conspiracies of dust. We would drive all night, your head tilted to my shoulder. At dawn I would nudge you with anxious fingers and say, Already we are in Idaho. |
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