THE SILVER HYPHENS

To my amazement, someone is dancing.
Eternal Biedermeier, the sound of windshield wipers
Lulling the car, making of the rain
A beloved shape-shift deeply, my sister’s
Charm bracelet on the wheel rhyming “Ramapo”


With “Brahms’ Alto”, the sound is stronger than hills
Yielding to facts. This is my poem,
A paean to dementia. This embraces
Dementia. The rain conceals a little,
Then is wiped away. The next exit


Toys with the undercarriage gently.
Rain makes a gorgeous pattern on the glass.
Let us begin: we are driving in the rain.
Rampant, redoubled, sister and I see
The rain so beautiful and then an empty


Windshield equally deathless, dazzling
Winter bees with a mountain on each wing.
By noon, nothing remains but romantic litter.
Biedermeier at all the outposts beats,
Whirrs, thuds. One charm upon her bracelet


Rings my eye with emerald around.
The first word of the risen Christ was “Woman”.
Did Magdalene require a further word?
Is there a forgotten country, un pays vague,
Behind the vexed and uxorious country


Forgotten just now? Litter of rain,
Little winter birds suggest as much. The aftermath
Of Bellerophon was olive groves. But see:
The shadows of olive trees turn instantly
To water. Waves of light, in a concourse


Of silver hyphens, drench new patterns of herbs
Near to home. Home is a southern studio.
Mother dotes upon the downing moon.
My sister drives a Biedermeier toy.
To my amazement, someone is dancing.