sweetness falling

Fallon Daerd

I.

Suggestive eloquence in those black, suede gloves -- flattened leather sweetly

worn -- shadow make-up on the hand and pale creases on the

fingers that stoke the minute tears in the red light

sifting through half-empty bottles -- moment night light flowing through and

balancing -- like a toy angel -- swaying like a hesitant questions,

trickling,

like a watered-down drink --

II.

Winter and hearth -- forward and aging and watching the scene change

from death to life -- nowhere to go for the season -- and a birth in my family

and a wife and an ornament one a tree I bought yesterday --

III.

I am needing to remember a can of plum tomatoes and

someone's hand breaking apart the red flesh in a warming pan

in a warming light -- the smell of gingerbread --

sifting and drifting

in one of those first December preludes --

A string of lights on the window overlooking a street not far

from the corner I remember all too sweetly --

weren't those firs few moments on a red

couch that you found on the street someplace --

IV.

Putting on gloves and heading out into the cold

and thinking about the year --

too much, perhaps, friends and drinks

and the red lights winking and the green lights winking --

V.

Weekends from a few years ago in Santa Barbara -- the beach, a tapestry's

remnant -- a memory, fragile as that boy's wooden sailboat with a red trip --

broken mast and all -- in an unmarked box -- somewhere in the basement --

What my mother bought for me in one of those small shops where the tourists buy their memories cheap --

in time -- to pay dearly for those moments in the

sand -- coming in with the tide -- and going out with the unforgiving tide --

VI.

VII.

Births of kings, and marriages that could have been (did she call that Christmas day? Does

she think of me on Christmas day?)

Hearing this stranger call me, a body I met not long before yesterday --

unfamiliar curves and familiar warmth -- hearing wedding bells in white

possibility -- the whole scene already played

out as I push the pause button and examine each passing frame --

browsing through the frames on the shelf in the store -- who posed for these pictures

as I see too much there -

Would you wear a red dress for me on that day in the crowd

and say --

I will not hold my peace --

VIII.

Leda's daughters on the mall -- so terribly young, and am I

so terribly old to think them so --

dance shoes and lessons -- lessons in dead winters not so long ago

in memories dying and resurrecting in the

frames --

am I pushing the pause button and slowing each frame --

frame by frame

someone in a dress of gossamer in the background blurred I am pouring myself another drink

and the wine is far too red --

IX.

Looking for the most ordinary thing -- and finding the

most ordinary things -- in the antique store

on the corner from my apartment --

twisted, rusted, metal things

that serve no purpose I can imagine --

wouldn't it look good on my mantle -- smoldering with the

heat of a day, past and aging;

and fading --

before our eyes --

It's just another lock of hair, peeking from beneath

her hat -- suggesting sweetness that

runs and scurries beneath the tracks -- all smooth and hot

with the passing wheels turning and

screeching --

starting and stopping --