Knew It Was Love, Felt It Was Glory

Frank Stanford

after Pier Paolo Pasolini

Here is where we went out in the boats, listening
For the dogs and children, for the girl laughing
When she lifts her dress, for the open casket,
Strolling through the wet libraries of moonlight

You could smell horses, some kind of flowers.

This is the way it was before they started pissing
In the guitar player's cup:

We tried to catch wind
Of the wars
Like a fly in a book
And those who believed
They were still dreaming

In the old days a man chewed a match
And thought
About his death like a woman

He told his son to quit drinking
He told him to see the priest

He marked his bottle like a beetree
And he wanted his wife
To stay quiet in bed

He dreamed of the rains a good bull
And his daughter
Coming in late at night
Holding her shoes
In her fingers

He stared at the fire
Waiting for the voice of his best friend

He cracked open the window
And put sugar on the sill
Like the moon was an animal

The man counts to eleven and the pain comes
Again, no wonder all of them went crazy.
After all the beautiful and clever dreams
A man ought to be able to say nothing.

You can smell the dead bird, but not its song.

Ginny Stanford