Джон Эшбери (John Ashbery)

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.