And, here in central Illinois, it was another beautiful day to read a book outside.
In this one, "the melodious southern wild comes into the cities" on visits to the South in 1978 and 1962. The speaker is "old enough to remember Jim Crow" and
encsonced in Dixie I am piss elegance,
nameless dread, I am the route of escape
In Section 4 of a long poem titled "Blue Hole, Flood Waters, Little Miami River," after a painting by Robert S. Duncanson, living in another time of terrible tension, I feel the tension in the air...and how it can dissipate...even in "1960-something, way
across Wolf Creek w/a white boy my age
the 2 of us---waiting for buses---reclined
on some lawn, at
my bus came first
I was so glad to read that "nothing happened." The same artist of Blue Hole... is the cover artist here, with View of Cincinnati, Ohio from Covington, Kentucky (1848). So gorgeous, so detailed, such a perfect fit for these poems.
And, in a poem about a dream, I found language that describes one of my own (very scary but also beautiful) dreams: "to mystify landscape into what else but death" so now I don't feel so alone in my scary dreaming...