The Obvious Tradition

I haven’t remembered anything, only the names and that their dates have been replaced by fees toted up out of mischief: a whopping yellow sun, finesse swallowed hard, a scrapbook in pantyhose dawdling beside some Shreveport-like expanse. But now you see it, she’s supposed to call. Surely neither will converse, they merely tell, succumbing to a disorderly shelf life like Tampax in June. Salute the budding terminus where the East Side was. Can there be a way to redefine the tense behind its jaunts, the pubescent imagery a hand calls forth as, rippling, it is thrust into the brine? The phantom tugboat slips along in depths past Garbo’s awnings and the united glaze which wilts, harnessing dim signatories in the windows’ sarong. Do things go further in need as I could? Or are they immune? How else have I been taught to guess and then been told to know, because matter equals good? A silken light masks the entrance to the market proofs of time.