Читать книгу North American Stadiums - Grady Chambers - Страница 9

Syracuse, October

Fuck the hot autumns of Charleston, fuck handsome

Alabama, fuck the Deep South alcoholics

standing in flannel in the summer sun. I drove north.

I took Green Road to Hubbardsville

and saw October in August, booted men hosing grit

off the park pool’s bottom, crisp leaves lifted

like the remnants of summer’s collective memory.

I drove out or into it listening to the Liverpool Choir’s

mournful version of the national anthem, the tuning forks

of eastern townships bringing a Stravinsky more film score

than symphony. I wanted the blaze of the unmuffled

trumpet, the spin song of the laundromat, a little of the

hurricane’s

Guernican remedy in the streeted leaves, in the blooms

of glass from kids breaking fluorescent

light tubes in the spent vocabulary

of an asphalt parking lot. I wanted

October: lace trim of a black dress slumped

on the floor of my birthday, cold skin

and laughter. Little burn on the leaves, little love

declaration; little dull light in the white sky.