Butter
A Welshman has taken
his nervous bank with him to the beaches
of Spain, from a glass-louvered bottom
of a small yacht he watches the vaulting ribs
of a sunken ship emptied
of the marigolds of salad
and dominion. His girlfriend’s
breasts are copper; he will
sell, he thinks, his dead father’s
dairy farm in late September.
Septembre. Septembre.
He is honestly reading a short story
by Poe. Thunderheads
moving over the lighter casino clouds
of mid-morning. He wonders
about Samuel Beckett
at late night rehearsals.
Spear points and bullwhips
up in the darkening sky. Who wants to die
in Springtime with a collapsed market
and in Paris. He laughs
having just bought back the farm. The slang
of the Americans gaining on him.
by Norman Dubie
from Blackbird
Spring 2011, Val. 10