ON WANTING TO SAY: [SPOKEN SLOWLY, BY A POORLY RECEIVED WRITER TO A POET]

1 R O N W A N T I N G T O S A Y [ S P O K E N S L O W L Y , B Y A P O O R L Y R E C E I V E D W R I T E R T O A P O E T ] W I L L I A M H . G A S S I just wanted to say . . . I wanted to say how much . . . But you coughed and the moment passed. You coughed and turned away. The moment disappeared. In which I was about to say . . . then thought better of it . . . I caught your coldness, consequently turned away to cough. So how could you listen, coughing, or how could I say anything significant, doing the same? I would have shown you how droplets from yesterday’s rain remained in the veins of the whitebud’s leaves. There they sparkle in the least breeze. Butterflies flutter, flutter away. Like a garment’s sneeze, sneezed in the breeze. But the moment did not last. Why do I still breathe? To be confronted by a cold shoulder? To harry those around me and burn purpose? To wait for kisses that never arrive? I wanted to say that I have seen such light growing in the grass, and on flower petals where the bees hide, or on a pavement’s oiled but randomly pitted face. The street’s cracks have been patched with tar until its veins are black, and its heart has been trod by the ruthless rollover of motor cars. I wanted to say . . . but oh dear what I might have said – oh dear oh dearest – a membership card might have been pinned to my 2 G A S S Y coat, its lapel, a shield made by facts hardly known: where to store sentences, paragraphs, enrasures, postures, points of views – and the glares one gets from unimportant things. Acumulate a pocket of loose threads? Hide in a green drawer. I know of a nest of wind which only the owls’ eyes see beneath the bark of the whitebud tree. For combat? at what altitude? Whee! Wheel No matter. We shall leave a trail. Shit and such. We shall earn the disrespect of Sweet Needlers. Look, those wounds are simply pretending to bleed. Like the wind that lives in the tree – that’s whee to me – the squirel that chews the berries that are a parish to birds – that’s whee of me – who sent through fluttering grimaces their distaste. Like the jacket on which my name is pinned as at a party, everyone breathing happiness on their lips, laps unsure, nevertheless good looks, yes: how do you do? how do I do? I am ill as a broken stick. Haw. Ha.le.haha. You expected ‘‘sick as a stick,’’ didn’t you? Ah.bah.wah. She will coast across the room from your aquired smile. Collecting glances all the while. The way they are gathered in the cinemas. Pasted into a much soiled book aboot ‘‘o.’’ Where saliva sums it up. Yesterday’s rain remains in the veins of the whitebud’s leaves, sparkling like unlikely glass at the least breeze. I have seen such light in the grass, in flower petals or on window sash, skids upon the pavement’s face, a rinse, a shrug, that shows my rage, as if the streets weren’t driven, like windows hammered shut, because the noise that floats near us is the gurgle of a truck. If you felt my breath like a bug upon an ear lobe, if you felt it about to be expelled, be about to buzz . . . fuss . . . my god . . . something heard . . . blah blah . . . anything . . . you would be suddenly sorrowful for us all, burdened by the glisten on each petal . . . because I remember you turned away. You could have O N W A N T I N G T O S A Y 3 R turned away because you knew what I was about to say; because you had said it to yourself, over and over like the turn of a truck’s wheel, where it doesn’t count, only spins...