A Perhaps Line. Gary D. Swaim

A Perhaps Line - Gary D. Swaim


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and dull victim, Scaramouche, swirls his body about.

      A fearsome panache, plunging a glistening blade into a Punch-like

      enemy unknown to him. Scaramouche then laughs his laugh saying,

      “The world is mad.”

      It is mad, in places little known to skilled geographers, and here, too,

      we play our little games of territory: “This part of the box is mine,

      the much smaller part, yours.” And we laugh.

      Colors

      Lighting on bright thistles, aster, and joe-pye weed,

      a diminutive Painted Lady thrust an even brasher color

      on her world. A flash of orange against prickly reds and

      purples.

      Morning incandescence unmatched at the sun’s rising.

      Though it’s flamboyant orange you first see, mistaking the

      black

      bruise-looking patches for dark leaves on which she rests,

      the light of clearer day shows murky colors with bright—

      fearsome beauty.

      Someone has said dark stains streaking the butterfly’s wings

      come from the male’s violent love making and serve as weights

      to keep

      his Painted Lady from flying away.

      What Night Questions

      for Pop, 9/20/05

      He breathes complications of night

      like a World War I trench veteran,

      mustard gas blocking air passages.

      He endures inquisitions at the hands

      of unknown enemies, my dying father,

      while he tries to calm brittle, restless legs.

      ****

      Had you expected to live forever?

      No. I thought I’d see the sun

      fall just once more into the blue lake

      and push concentric circles of light beneath

      my feet at the shore.

      Why are you frightened?

      I feel the pulse in my thinned neck. It pounds

      at first, then again and again. I wait for an eruption

      in my brain. Then, the pulse falls quiet.

      I hear no pulse.

      But there is more you are not telling me.

      My sons tell me I should not be afraid, that I am

      a good man. In the middle of the night, I am not

      sure.

      ****

      He drags anxious thoughts through labyrinths

      of night, weighted packs pulling at him

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