Carl Boon
He’s laughing at the joke
he couldn’t tell, fiddling
with Whitman and how
it matters, finally, this room
that filters light in bars
against their faces.
This space where nothing
stays except the stare,
the unanswered question
lingering, disappearing.
He pauses. Something
in the face of a boy
in the back recalls to him
his own face years ago,
how he leapt to love, lied,
and was borne unto a boat.
They move to Hart Crane—
he moves to Hart Crane—
as the sounds in the hall
grow louder, and it is him,
youth cursing at age,
divine declaring the dying
dead at last. A girl wants
to say goodbye, another
stands at the doorway,
her knees trembling,
her wrists like Stein’s,
unready for the world.
He knows with sudden anger
it’s not him they seek
but them they’ve lost,
girls and boys spinning
past their mothers’ laps,
spinning because the world
spins, and their segments
have yet to be discouraged.
Clamor 