ISSUE 11
May 2000

Mark Bibbins

 

Mark Bibbins Mark Bibbins lives in New York City and teaches a poetry workshop at The New School. His first collection, Swerve, appears in Take Three: 3 (Graywolf Press, 1998). Individual poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Poetry, The Yale Review, The Paris Review, Boston Review and elsewhere.

The French Don’t Have a Word for Weekend    Click to hear in real audio


An orange barge of clouds
                      abandons its mooring,
the moon—
            only half, all we need.

           The hurricane, by now
merely gesture,
                         drags a final scarf
           across Long Island
with all the significance
of a faded movie queen.
 
                                   Daylit waves
                        remind us she was here,
          while on the next blanket
salty gossip effervesces,
            linking the habits of el niño
                        and a tawdry party.
 
           We are other things moving—
           in this case, inland,
taking afternoon with us, sand
                              on the floor of the car.
 
It’s too late
by the time we notice
                             how short the days
                       have become—
                                   a lewd hand
                                pats the ass-end of summer.
 
                  And one of Chagall’s goats
                                  is coaxed by torchlight
                         from the patterned blues
at the bottom
           of a pool,
                      where he is dancing.

 

 

 

Mark Bibbins: Poetry
Copyright © 2000 The Cortland Review Issue 11The Cortland Review