More Like Montpelier

nth triggered sunset, tripwire 7 PM,

capriccio flourish of darkness

I always wrote to you about, yawning.

Fractures of grackle

& phone wire angle,

furnishing the skyward scenery well-

enough for God, that flat pleasure

steaming through stucco’d weepwinds.

Here, aesthetics well-

avoid most of Plato’s

ideals: kitsch plastic vines,

bistros’ red checkers, lazy-susans

offering with dynamic robotix

an assortment of oil and ointment.

Never like this in my mind.

 Spelling bee kids’ minds. Or more

 accurately, geography kids’ minds,

   those who knew it was a state capital

   and laughed up milk on fiberglass trays.

     Have you heard? I’d ask. Factorial quotas

     spawned new four-pocketed models. They’re sharp.

       One pocket for pea combos, one for salads

       and for the others, porkish saltdrizzle—but
       anyway,

it’s hard to hear myself hear you tell me to ask

whether it’s lake-effect romance or sanguine & perfumed,

the kind before pornographers made us look at trees differently.

Here, I don’t notice too much.

Mostly I talk to snow, asking for directions.

I wear lamps in snow storms, looking for sleep.

Parks are empty. Bricks are washed. Birds, none.

What I know of your sleep: weeds, sprig-wheeze.

You told me: resigned in the window, arms crossed,

cigarette. I saw this from the lawn and wondered,

wondering what is it I cannot afford here.

—Ethan Paquin

Originally published in the October/November 2002 issue of Boston Review