74 Friendship poems

(To F. W. Harvey) Out of the smoke and dust of the little room With tea-talk loud and laughter of happy boys, I passed into the dusk. Suddenly the noise Ceased with a shock, left me alone in the gloom, To wonder at the miracle hanging high Tangled in twigs, the silver crescent clear. Time passed from mind. Time died; and then we were Once more at home together, you and I. The elms with arms of love wrapped us in shade Who watched the ecstatic west with one desire, One soul uprapt; and still another fire Consumed us, and our joy yet greater made: That Bach should sing for us, mix us in one The joy of firelight and the sunken sun.

Dropping napkins, corks, and non-compostables into the trash, I see that friends have mistaken my everyday chopsticks for disposables, helpfully discarding them alongside inedibles: pork bones, shrimp shells, bitter melon. Among napkins and corks, they do look compostable: off-white, wooden, warped from continual washing — no lacquer, no ornament. But anyone who thinks these chopsticks are disposable doesn’t live with chopsticks in the comfortable way of a favorite robe, oversized, a bit broken. Thin paper napkins, plastic forks, and non-compostable takeout boxes constitute the chopstick’s natural habitat to many I hold dear. With family or alone, I’ll maintain that chopsticks aren’t disposable, but if I can make peace with the loss of utensils when breaking bao with guests, I’ll be one of them, not digging in the napkins and corks. Compostable chopsticks are the answer: everyday and disposable.

She looked nearly the same But when I hugged her There was substantially more To her—no doubt as with me. She fibbed as I did at the edge Of curb under the streetlight As spiders dropped like tiny Parachutes—they were difficult To see. On the periphery Of good luck, I thought, Revisiting her quirky habits And expressions, what I eventually Found so bothersome. Except When I glanced at my watch I discovered I was trembling Like a small-time embezzler. I see, she said, you must have An appointment. The driveways And hedges funneling back Into darkness, into someone else's Childhood, where speech was An obstacle. Wild turkeys Approaching across the lawn. Oh no, I said, I'm just so pleased To see you. But that didn't Make sense either. She cocked Her head, a woman with grown Twins and three conniving husbands. Even my toes felt damp. I remember, She said, when you'd lay your head On my lap, I'd stroke your hair— I didn't recall. Though I thought That would be a good idea now. But I'm married, I said. I own My own business. It would have Been helpful if I'd planned Some banter. I'm a high school Principal, she told me, I don't put up with horseshit From anyone. I brushed the arm Of her jacket—she merely stared. A door slammed. A grown idiot Drooled in an attic somewhere down The lane. I had another image As well, one that held an odor Of patchouli oil. As she stepped Forward without caution, placed a hand On my neck. Take me, she insisted, To those rivets of flame following Wire—because this is it, You'll never have another Hour. I immediately felt Calmer...

I’ll go among the dead to see my friend. The place I leave is beautiful: the sea Repeats the winds’ far swell in its long sound, And, there beside it, houses solemnly Shine with the modest courage of the land, While swimmers try the verge of what they see. I cannot go, although I should pretend Some final self whose phantom eye could see Him who because he is not cannot change. And yet the thought of going makes the sea, The land, the swimmers, and myself seem strange, Almost as strange as they will someday be.