I’ve Been Smelling the Lavender Alone

A muskrat slips below the honeysuckle bridge,
but only after I leave the lakeside park.
I have to hear it from the liars

who put these things to song
and I’m not foolish enough to do it.
I’d like to know what they mean by it,

saying exactly what they see.
A rainbow frittering in the frog pond,
a spilled jelly gleaming like amber in the sun?

Amber! I’ve seen some beautiful incidents too,
moonlight engorging an empty glass,
a priest’s shadow swelling ancient rock.

But presently what interests me is my soul.
He’s been absent for weeks. He left one night
when the clouds flamed purple behind the lacy tree,

and usually he loves this type of thing.
After he left, an airplane even came slipping through the sky,
making a terrific sound, as if it had forgotten how to fly.

But it went on and on, as far as I could stand to watch it
without the aid and comfort of my soul.
I know he’s out ripping through the valley towns

in his fast car, kind of like I used to do,
skimming his hand out the window and singing
that same song many times, noticing mostly everything.