Clarence Major

C
Clarence Major
No One Goes to Paris in August
A Montparnasse August
with view of the Cimetière. A yard of bones.

We wake to it. Close curtains to it.
Wake to its lanes. Rows of coffin-stones in varying light.

Walking here. Late with shade low, low, long.
We’re passing through, just passing through
neat aisles of gray mausoleums.

(From Paris. Send this postcard. This one.
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Photograph of a Gathering of People Waving
based on an old photograph bought in a
shop at Half Moon Bay, summer, 1999 No sound, the whole thing.
Unknown folk. People waving from a hillside of ripple grass
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Revelation at Cap Ferrat
It’s not solely the dance
of the juggler but his spirit:
with its turkey wings, perfect thighs,
sensuous hips, large round flat eye.
This eye smiles like lips.
Watch this eye—
it’s not a donkey eye.

It’s not solely the dancer
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San Diego and Matisse
1. INSIDE FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF A TREE

Beautiful women in smoky blue culottes
lying around on fluffy pink pillows
beneath windows onto charming views,
sea views, seasonal leaves and trees.
Inside is outside and outside inside.
Smell of saltwater swimming in the room.


2. OUTSIDE FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF A ROCKING CHAIR
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Sand Flesh and Sky
Our ropes are the roots
of our life. We fish
low in the earth,
the river beneath runs through our veins,
blue and cold in a riverbed.

When the sun comes up,
the moon moves slowly to the left.

I tie the logs and limbs together,
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