John Ashbery (Джон Эшбери)

Decembrists

They met cute in the commissary, and for a while
it seemed as if it was going to be like old times
again. Then, as luck would have it,

they ruled him out, into a hole in Canada,
the air dense with no-see-ums,
applauded by no-goodniks. I mean it was awful

yet in a certain sense interesting—
the horizons, the atmospherics. By evening it
felt like we were all breathing easier.
A lake fanned out around the dock. Trestles
reported from far away, confirming good news

for many. And we, we lasted, as one lives in a tree
without thinking too much about it. You can’t make
these things up, put a price on it. In microscopic,
supposedly disparate situations, he will be good
in just about everything he does, snooping,
giving us a chance to relax. How confident it was!
As recently as what seems like today we were mixing.
mixing it up, what a dismal friend of mine calls slurping,
eager to flip our leaders the bird.

Riffing brings us to odd headquarters.
Isn’t that what a charmed life
is supposed to prevent, yet secretly encourage? He called
“Come up here.” We grabbed another glimpse of
the books in the carrel, sweet in their stamped bindings.

1. Mottled Tuesday
2. Sleeper Wedding
3. A Sweet Disorder
4. Pyrography
5. A November

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