But I Asked For Continuity And A Neo-Surrealist Love:

A Movement in Two Ballades

During the second part of the dream, I seemed to have arrived

in the wings of the theatre, while some lighter ballet was in progress.

Two dancers, on their exit from the stage, called me by name,

took me by the arms, made me dance with them.

~ David Gascoyne

I.

And no one would listen, as Ming tore off a corner of Yevgeny Yevtushenko.

And folded it into a bookmark, over the page about wild geese on new land.

And how Route 1 would take us from Maine into Canada’s harder weather.

And what of his confession at Walden, nervous whisper to Craig and Jake?

And what of Craig and Jake sitting down to listen, over three pints of beer?

And a Sandhill crane stood on the edge of a cliff, then tipped over, for flight.

And Ming opened his suitcase like a wardrobe, filled with dresses and hats.

And said how they were all hand-sewn, in a garment factory back in Missouri.

And how he tailored them, rip-offs of a McCartney, Lagerfeld and Westwood.

And how the Duke Ellington Orchestra was playing something for the lounge.

And how the trumpet had taken center stage, and wouldn’t let go of the rails.

And the pumpkin sauce, dribbled over veal, seemed too viscous, too salty.

And the lobster bisque had the same deep color too, like a bergamot orange.

And what of the Earl Grey tasting too tart, with bits of peel and red cayenne?

And how Route 20 would help us breathe, take in the view at Yellowstone.

And how the gaggle took flight, into a skein like black flags over the horizon.

And how the mottled sculpin swam headlong into Jake’s gillnet or tangle net.

And Ming didn’t eventually appreciate the handy irony, or our tired allegories.

And how the town decided he would be the local griot, be their trusty scribe.

And his stories were praise songs, but larger, how each paean would catch fire.

And run across the ceiling like last year’s conflagration of piñata and effigies.

And how democracy had failed terribly, unwittingly as if history was a dream.

And how the fish farmers’ drift nets looked old, like scales on a giant marlin.

And how the pochard and mallard looked like family, with their red crests.

And Ming was all ears, listening in on “Do Nothin’ Till You Hear From Me”.

And The Eagles strumming “Tequila Sunrise”, and the day drawing to a close.

And his boots, hurled behind him, to drop onto the ground in two loud thuds.

And Ming took off his flannel and corduroys, running naked into the wind.

II.

But for the cliff, like the Sandhill, Craig’s arms flapping, a big pair of wings.

But for the sun, eye to eye with us in a row, as if to kiss its face, a talisman.

And the pochard’s blood sank to the bottom, a dark stone in the copper pot.

As the Sandhill soared, wedge of whitefish in its mouth, flipping like a wrist.

And the night terrors, filled with epitaphs, returned like a tyrant or an epoch.

As Emmylou Harris’s “Slow Surprise” told us it’d be equally hard to choose.

And Craig and Jake tackled Ming, like the old days at football or in the yard.

And what of Ming’s dramatic monologue after the Pennsylvania Turnpike?

But he didn’t wince when Craig and Jake soaked the Anna Sui in bourbon.

But he didn’t flinch when Craig wrung it over his mouth, made him drink it.

And he didn’t object when Jake lifted his gown over his head, gossamer veil.

And how the orange satin tore over the crinoline, its wild fence of bent wire.

And how there was tulle and nylon from Mother’s dance days for a bell tent.

But how there was a second dress, its red waistband a slight arc, like a lip.

But how the ribbon was a slender silk, Ming’s homage to Alicia Markova.

But how Ming used the same kohl as a child, and stuffed his heels with crepe.

That Markova’s eyes lit up like Ming’s, and looked to the past and beyond.

That there was life beyond this memoir of hours, and the early Romantics.

And Howie Day’s “Morning After” and “Ghost” echoed through the canyon.

And James Taylor’s “Don’t Let Me Be Lonely Tonight” became a love song.

That Markova’s Giselle was as intense and fierce, as fearless on Platte River.

That her dance was a force of nature, maelstrom sweeping through a town.

And Ming shuffled in knee-high boots, Vaudeville tap act, along Route 20.

That his arms were raised, in fifth position, curved tulips at dawn, bold stems.

How it wasn’t easy growing up in Wyoming, maybe Newport would be better.

How Ming taped his suitcase, edge to edge in cardboard, kept his secrets safe.

How now Ming slept between his two lovers, his face cradled in Craig’s neck.

And Jake’s left arm wrapped across Ming’s chest, heavy, warm like a pillow.