And Again, March Is Almost Here

American Poetry Review, The, May/Jun 1999 by Ashbery, John

If I were a tree you'd say

I was lost by a highway.

Death overflows the ditches

In which life confined it

and will be that way for some time.

I saw the alchemist drown

in his turquoise at seven

and elsewhere saw the less spiritual side.

God, how it gets me down.

Then furtively a squirrel came

as though to take my measurements

for a new suit, "Here, I don't need this . . .

brine." I was cluttered for the day.

A Mrs. came out of her house

being as I was on the road to say

look for the heather that is father

to the salt hay down the road.

I guess I only confused

my eager willingness to understand

just about anything that was offered.

Alas, it wasn't much.

There were few requests for employment

and those seemed old and pallid

as though faxed by a squid one day last March.

Now, a year has gone by. Not quite

a year though, as I

was going to say.

They offered me Bluebeard.

So much that was unacceptable

that day and all the forests to come.

Though bathed in sleep and aromatic

persons, other stimuli come to the aid

of the hairs of one's neck:

a lad on a bicycle, once,

beautiful as the crescent moon;

enjoyable as a book in a long set of books

of who asks you this secret again.