More re: Memoranda

for Victor Coleman

I am wrong
in the style of my moments

everyone cuts the park
the day unrestrained
at least in weather

the sun always somewhere
above the dark wood

*

there is grace
in things smaller
than surroundings

for me it is: she steps
from the wood
as though slower
by burden

ambition casts certain scale
and so she is strong in my sight

*

my language at best
the forest decay

at worst
the creamy soup of Santini
being spooned up from the stage

*

the park now graced
by what it was

on this side of my viewing window
lilacs in the red glass vase
work in the scale of the frame
and beyond the most remote
drive-ins
remains the dark wood

*

for me it is: I am wrong without her near me
to bulldoze the fire line
that embraces the burning trees