Free Civil Elegies: And Other Poems by Dennis Lee Page A

ceiling!
— and boggle, with
ten-year thoughts in mind.
Look out, I believe we’re married & lap your
hair across my face, this must make sense but what will I
do to your beautiful name?

Recollection
    I remember still
         a gentle girl, just married, how she
drew her husband down, they had
         no practice but she gave him warm
openings till he became a
         cocky simpleton inside her,
coming like kingdom come for the excellent
         pleasure it made in her body.

When It Is Over
    The low-light recedes, the records recede, skin
empties. Under my eyes
    your eyes recede, I brush your cheek you feel what
touch what clumsy much-loved man
    receding? Your body is full of listening,
exquisite among its own
    Shockwaves. So. What
space are you going into?
    Over & over, love, what other
music? Your
    eyelids will be here for
centuries, do not come to.
    But flicker, come deeper, let be — the jubilation
eases through your
    body. So. What
space have you gone into?
    Slowly, love, beneath me
your breathing returns.
    Now it is over, the flesh and resonance that filled that
other space do not come to and
    try to tell me where, for it is over.
But drowse off now; as the after-pleasure settles
    gently into our lives, it is over and
over, and over, and over, and over and over.

Night
    Night one more time, the darkness
close out there on the snow.
Goddamn war, goddamn smog, close the blind.
    How many times have you
stared through that window at darkness?
Come on over here, lie on top of me, let’s fuck.
    Good men would think twice
about it, they would
not be born in this century.
    Night one more time, great
lobotomy. Come on over here with your body, lie down, tomorrow
it all starts again.

In a Bad Time
    So much is gone now, bright and suicidal,
so much is on the verge.
    What good are words among the
rock, the glittering wreckage?
    Fallout falls; the empires breed
the nightmares that they need.
    The only words are lives.
Friend.       Friend.

Thursday
    Powerful men can fuck up too. It is Thursday,
a mean old lady has died, she got him his
paper route and there is still that whiff of
ju-jube and doilies from her front hall; a stroke; he can
taste them going soggy; some in his pocket too, they always picked up
lint; anyway, she is dead.
And tonight there are things to do in the study, he has a
report, he has the kids, it is
almost too much. Forty-five years, and
still the point eludes him whenever he stops to think.
Next morning,
hacking the day into shape on the phone, there is still no
way — routine & the small ache,
he cannot accommodate both.
At Hallowe’en too, in her hall.
And I know which one he takes and that
night at six, while the kids are tackling his legs with their small tussling,
how he fends them off, tells them “Play upstairs”; one day
they will be dead also with their jelly beans.
In her kitchen, she had a parrot that said “Down the hatch!”

More Claiming
    That one is me too — belting thru
    school to the rhythms of glory, tripping,
blinking at vanishing place-names
    Etobicoke Muskoka Labrador then Notting Hill Gate but he could
never keep them straight,
    though as they ran together they always had
people in them, like ketchup on his shirt.
    Extra-gang spikers and singalong, I believe that was
Labrador? Teachers. That
    girl in Stockholm — Christ! what did they
expect? the man was otherwise engaged.
    For there were treks, attacks and
         tribal migrations of meaning, wow
    careening thru his skull, the doves &
dodos that descended, scary
    partnerships with God, new selves erupting
messianic daily — all the grand
    adrenalin parade!
He was supposed to wear matching socks?
    It was a messy pubescent
    surfeit of selves but there were
    three I didn’t know about,
the sabotage kids.
    They never