Friday, August 21, 2015

Friday Like Poem: The Longwood Gardens Nightscape is Not a Place for Rational Decisions.

Haven't posted one of my own in a long while, kind of excited and super-vulnerable! Be gentle.

And remember, you can submit Friday Love Poems any time!

The Longwood Gardens Nightscape is Not a Place for Rational Decisions.

You will spend the early part of the evening in an Impressionist painting,
nothing but natural light on trees.

You will experiment with all kinds of sitting—
first-kiss-in-two-weeks under a paradigmatic tree sitting,
on the lawn in front of a froggy lake sitting
trying to stay awake while your hair is played with sitting,
all before it even gets dark. You will half-look for the beer garden
and give it up as lost.

Next, you will forget all you know about constellations,
you’ll forget all you ever knew, and
every configuration of stars will look like a present
waiting to be unwrapped, or having been unwrapped.

And oh, the fountains, you’ll forget what you know about water,
about class struggle and conservation, and wonder
how anyone gets anything done
in a world that has all this pretty water
arcing toward the sky.

When you get to the piped-in fireflies,
lavender and blue, you’ll realize you
were both once saved by suburban lightning bugs
one summer apart but in the same fields, in the same story,
give or take a misery.

This is right around the time you’ll remember
that you were once really good at dropping acid,
when the conservatory lights dim
and the flowers are at their most neon,
and the kids everywhere have glow bracelets
and you want one. (A glow bracelet, that is.)

Someone thought to project
vertigo patterns and supernatural music
onto the topiary garden
and what is left to dream of, after this?

When trees are lit up as blue jewels,
as those silver fireworks that look like bees,
as a phoenix taking flight,
and you are lit up with soft touch
which you usually don’t prefer
but in this case hits the spot,
with a beard brushing against your forehead, your neck,
you’ll forget to even judge the Apple watch
when its soft interruptions become a gentle heartbeat.
Yoko Ono said you should listen to a heartbeat
and Yoko Ono would never do anything to hurt you.

Once you have learned every bench,
you will both regret and find yourself glad that there are
neither couches nor beds.

You’ll decline a dewy hillside,
but agree to a shove against a tree trunk
suddenly and with all your strength.

You will not be able to resist mentioning
your dahlia colored underpants.

You’ll burn bright with the same lights
that confuse and awaken the trees.
You will forget your compass, your shoes, your water.
You will find and then lose
your nasturtium seeds from the gift shop.

Extravagant like the flowers, you’ll spend everything, all at once.

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