Her eyes flutter,TV snow angel, station identificationat the close of the broadcast day.I can’t remember if I cried . . .
And somewhere over the bermacross the garage wallsof every red-blooded American boytrapped in an ambering polaroid,the kids eyes are green, but the picture’s faded,not faded: shifted red, desaturated,it’s hard not to remember the world that way,that the Renaissance didn’t look like School of Athens,that if you looked up the dome of the sky, rose madderwouldn’t have cracks in the plaster.That the seventies weren’tsome decade long magic hour;twilight, capped in amber.
And all along the midwayMidnight Madness has gone away.Everything you lovewill be replacedby something less funand more expensive.
They’re burying herin a red, blue and silver tracksuit,each star embroidered by handby the women of wrestling andWonder Woman’s stuntman.
Steve Austin got lost in quicksand andfrom their caves the Bigfoots howl,they sing a song of Alderaan,from the back of an old forty-five,the night Farrah Fawcett died.