Always Merry and Bright

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

Across the frontier, imperfect sympathies are twinkling,

a petite suite of lights in the gaga sky.

Most of the important things had to be obliterated

for this to happen. Does that interest you, ma jolie?

Something else would have happened in any case,

more to your liking perhaps. Yet we can't undo the sexual posture

that comes with everything, a free gift.

Now the blades are shifting in the forest.

The ocean sighs, finding the process of striking the shore

interminable and intolerable. Let's pretend it's back when we were young

and cheap, and nobody followed us. Well,

that's not entirely true: the cat followed us

home from school sometimes. Men in limousines followed us

at a discreet distance, the back seat banked with roses.

But as we got older one couldn't take a step

without creating crowd conditions. Men dressed like reporters

in coats and hats with visors, and yes, old ladies too,

crooning about the loss they supposed we shared with them.

Forget it. It all comes undone sooner or later.

The vetch goes on growing, wondering

whether it grew any more today

Such, my friends, is life, wondered the president.