Recursions of Green (poems from old notebooks, January 2011)

There’s a poem where you step out
of a fountain’s column of water,
morning sun low behind you,

and the water stops as you leave it,
column branching in wide arcs
as lily stems below the flowers.

In that poem I have a cigarette
between my lips, a lighter in my hand
I am forever forgetting

in the liquid motion of your body
under thin, white linen,
in the music that follows you all day

among the ivory and gold and blue
geometries of the walls and courtyards
and arches and towers that echo

your laughter and each other
under the falcons and hawks
whose dance is choreographed

against the sky’s shifting blues
by the sweep of your hips,
the darts of your eyes.

It is a poem I have misplaced
somewhere amongst the dust and clutter
in a dark, neglected attic of my mind,

but I remember how you moved in it,
trailing, light as a Bernini veil in stone,
a spicy scent of oriental lilies

over green pools you looked into
as evening came, bent at the waist,
into the eyes of your reflection

holding recursions of green
pools holding you until your hair
fell over your eyes bringing night

and the moon was a white stone
falling into water.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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