Remembrance of Things Future

I

You arrive in a new town.
Your suitcase yawns. Your troubles
Unpack themselves and dress up.
A night on the town! Poor town.
The wallpaper reminds you
Of a story or a poem
You started once in a room
Much like this room, this poem.

You will dial Room Service
And order a fifth of gin.
You will drink an inch of it
Clear as cellophane, and laugh,

Having heard in the next room
The shuffle of playing cards.
You will knock. You will sit in.
You will fill your inside straights.

II

 You are the tall dark stranger, and his ghost.
You will forgive. You will forget. Almost.

III

You will apologize & apologize & apologize.
You are Henry James.
You are Japanese.
Tennessee is a string on your finger.
Tennessee is you with your pants down.
And you own up to it.

Tennessee is a train coming in,
And you lost in the steam of it,
And the gray mail-bags falling.

You will come later, to the edge.
You will hone it. You will cut yourself.
You will apologize.

IV

If the violin attacks, if the mirror changes
its spots, are the leopards to be left untuned?
You lay broad waking, the two of you, in a
motel in Phoenix. You will not be happy again,
ever.

V

There are those who dream of keys.
There are those who dream of locks.
You dream of neither. You are the key;
You are the lock. There is no turning.

You are like a good novelist.
Your characters never open doors,

Never close them. And when they speak,
They say thou, they say thee.

VI

If your mother should live again in a dream,
and turn and look at you, as she did so often,
and should she, yes, whisper Shipwreck, you must
answer, Cage.

VII

This is the day you have been waiting for.
The morning should be set aside for thought:
Hunker down naked under such a hat
As one sees disappearing around corners,
A broad black hat. Pretending to some boredom,
But only some, conjure the absolute.
It will seem under that brim that you get
Moment by moment more and more immortal.
The grand confusions! Have you got them straight?
Never mind. Evening is another story:
You, robed in shadow, all garlanded by light,
A prince grown weary of posing for his portrait —-
You nod and dream, and dream yourself complete,
This evening of the day you waited for.

VIII

Of your absence newly acquired,
The O of astonishment, the Q of death,
Nothing, they will say nothing.
They will say, The vineyard of his palm

And on the shelf, gleaming, the brims
that leaned into and tasted his mouth.

All has been translated into amber.
All has been poured into your cups.

And the tongue cried more, more.
And the Tongue cried never enough.

IX

The bear, the broom, the butterfly ...
The bear is for misfortune.
It shambles toward you, ten feet tall,
For that is the exact height,
Always, of misfortune. Always.

New prospects ahead, the broom says,
Or would say, if brooms spoke,
But all the broom does is go shush, shush
Sweeping the bear away, the bear away.

The butterfly says, much happiness,
Says, Unexpected pleasure,
All in the tongue of the butterfly,
Which is the tongue of the future.