3727. WAINSCOT

WAINSCOT

I want to go, I have the heavings and intentions 
of finding out - where the lady-land vespers 
disappear after they are heard, how the

running robin skitters and turns over this 
the bounteous land like a thundering herd
of very quiet birds. This, this is presented: the

first morn of Summer the year's longest day. 
The radio voice that presumes to tell tall 
tales of all of these things, the smattering

of small-talk that moves such things along.

-

Yet, no, this morning sky is not like that at
all: the train whistle shrieks, and the tiny
red car, all noise and blather, yet storms 
down old Nassau making its riot of sound 
and smell - the ancient odor somehow of 
burned and wasted fossil-fuel brought up
from a million years to remind me of the

tell. Longest time - longest day; all together

and just as well. That little Spanish fellow,

I see him drive glibly along : unknowing in 
his malfeasance, a dumb-struck smile 
upon his face, listening to song, staring

straight out, his longest day forever, 
just rolling along.

-

Somehow I know it has always been thus, 
and I shall make never no difference

no how. My small card of time, already

punched, is running along and down, sending 
its palest vibration outward - see this, see that, 
I was here, I did that. It all matters very little in 
the end. I want to go. I have the heavings
and the intentions of finding it out.