90

See where we can win, the horses
with spectacular names, which I name my poems,
some much the same,
AC, she calls to me, Amaris, she asks me,
what am I doing, texting? Who, my friends?
Whose house are we going to tonight, she asks, who?

AC, I think of her as I unlock the typewriter keys, a click over her shoulder,
the brief embrace (unlevel) on the stoop so far and so close to the Acme where her man buys coffee,
I see her, L, on the southeast surf, I pull my subscription (this I talked w/ Nicky about)
this windy evening Rudy came and picked up his son who gives me nothing but a hard time, 
and I, continuing ever on, look out and over with the sweat of aluminum on my forehead


I summer myself, it is intimate.
The old family, they are doing 
well, they are beautiful and tall 
children, they are muscle, and 
Greek organizations, they are young,
at times vapid and drunk off the same
drink, they are dark glasses and the young
boy who watched me get mine under a blanket
all those years ago, in the dark only two nights 
in north Jersey, that was the summer
where I begged my mother and father to let me stay, let me
                                                                                         get what was mine
                                                                                         coming to her,
                                                                                         summer    drink      
                                                                                         summer & sex 
summer and the repression of that 
entire block, sitting there, in the memory of . . .
Bee, on the edge of the swing, w/ her hair pulled back,
fresh and bouncing and tan, ever quizzical
slips off the tongue, walking always a few steps 
ahead w/ a crown, embodies summer   summer body