On The Frontier

at swim in trembling alpine
pools,
a double dream of ice-cream --

In a heat wave with all of God’s children . . .
In a heat wave these thoughts give little relief, but

midnight, your skiff on the dark water
its wake gentled by moon-blossoms
and stars.

Crossing over frontiers of sleep
into realms
of wakeful surprises lunging
in birthday pajamas from beds humid
with sleep.

Saturday afternoon
a rebel crashes symbols
somewhere

in a veiled wood
playing drums
in reckless flight,
but also
very workman-like,

tracking-in on the rails --


And rolling
the waves

spreading through briars
and descending a
hill --

and

down the children roll
in silence, or in laughter

down down in delight
they go
a blur those round faces
made ruddy and swollen
with mirth and mayhem

emollient across a
film of after-images 
in the pellucid light --

O, the longing to be
pierced by further
color saturation!

Rolling down the enamel sward
frozen horizontal -- as if conducting last rites over
clenched fists
with little arms braced and rolling
golden koala-like
spun in lassoes of
damp hair and flesh
flecked with bits
of weeds, and fresh-cut grass.

Or countenance closed --
within a blue chrysalis
glassine with time and motion
before all stillness
-- whether silent, or laughing;

as if pressed behind glass,
as if in quiet reflection.