SUBJECT>Re: A Poem With No Grief In It POSTER>Bowen EMAIL> DATE>1112398135 IP_ADDRESS>cache-dtc-ac08.proxy.aol.com PREVIOUS>85759 NEXT> 85812 IMAGE> LINKNAME> LINKURL>

Si Mon,

I'm iffy on this one. The first strophe (and it could be me) seems just overladen with detail after detail that doesn't really excite but is just detail.

What I do like are the first few lines here and the last three or four. I think, maybe, some streamlining of images is in order. I'll check back tomorrow and see if I still think that, but for right now, that's what I get when I leave here.

Nice to read you again. Your stuff is always something to enjoy.

Best,

Bowen

: It’s not 1963. Still, heaven
: is a Falcon, sky blue with rusted chrome,
: push button transmission. It’s not how, but
: where
: and why. The town beach after a day
: butterflying jumbos
: at the Bass River Fish Market. A girl
: with tan shoulders, a fisherman’s daughter.
: Cheap beer, but what does it matter after the
: first,
: the second. Who’s counting? Not the fisherman
: who dreams of Tautog for chowder, walking
: the flats. His daughter dreams of you, a
: wedding
: without sand. You ignore dreams and drive to
: get gas,
: to watch a man, maybe 5 years older than you,
: rub a rag across your windshield as if the salt
: and grime might eventually disappear. His name
: is on his shirt. Soon he disappears.
: But you aren’t interested in the schedules of
: grief.

: Good grief the carton shouts. Yes, it’s good.
: She becomes your wife. In a few years, her
: blood
: talks back to her, resists the way a three year
: old
: does after a day at the beach, exhausted,
: refusing
: to acknowledge sleep. Her blood says no.
: But that is in the future, now past.
: Big Blues eat the little Blues. Deep below,
: something joyful swims out of it all.