Status Updates From Houseboat Days

That there could be rain, and

That it could be like lines, ruled lines scored

Across the garden of violet cabbages,

That these and other things could stay on

Longer, though not forever of course;

That other commensals might replace them

And leave in their turn.

The sun fades like the spreading

Of a peacock’s tail, as though twilight

Might be read as a warning to those desperate

For easy solutions. This scalp of night

Doesn’t continue or break off the vacuous chatter

That went on, off and on, all day:

I hate agreeing with myself to read a book and then finding that I don’t like it.

Painting the mundane in densely-packed strokes of impressionism with a discreet figure, here and there, and perhaps a lofty plan, after all.

Damn Ashbery is good.

"The page of dusk turns like a creaking revolving stage in Warren, Ohio." Hm. If you say so, Mr. Ashbery.