POEM
Obbligato
Bruce SmithLate August was a pressure drop,
rain, a sob in the body,
a handful of air
with a dream in it,
summer was desperate
to paradise itself with blackberry
drupelets and swarms, everything
polychromed, glazed, sprinkler caps
gushing, the stars like sweat
on a boxer's skin. A voice
from the day says
Tax cuts
for the rich or scratch
what itches or it's a sax
from Bitches Brew,
and I'm a fool
for these horns
and hues, this maudlin
light. It's a currency of feeling
in unremembered March.
There's a war on and snow in the
city
where we've made our desire stop
and start. In the dying school of Bruce
I'm the student who still believes
in the bad taste of the beautiful
and the sadness of songs
made in the ratio
of bruise for bruise.
Source: Poetry (April 2004).
This poem originally appeared in the April 2004 issue of Poetry.
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Originally from Philadelphia, Bruce Smith is the author of several books of poems, including . . . MORE »
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