Even so, we have forgotten their graves.

I swear to you I will not beat one drum in your absence.

And the beasts of night will not forget their crimes,

nor the others their roly-polyness.

It was in a garage where tire irons jangled in the breeze

to the accompaniment of flyswatters functioning

that we first heard of that Phoenician sailor

and how when the tide was out he would pretend to be

the Flying Dutchman on one of his infrequent shore leaves

to garner a spouse. But he was all red with jewels—

not rubies, cheap gems. And his incisors struck fear

in the hearts of the entourage. Nevertheless, many

were the maidens who considered him an option,

though they always ended by rejecting it. Some said it was his breath,

others, the driven cornsilk of his hair. Perhaps

it was the lack of something called “personable,”

though I think I don’t even want to know what that is, I’ll follow

my heart over warm oceans of Chinese lounge music

until the day the badger coughs up that secret,

though first we must discover the emetic,

the one I told you about.

Confused minions swarmed on the quarterdeck.

No one was giving orders anymore. In fact it was quite a while

since any had been issued. Who’s in charge here?

Can’t anyone stop the player piano before it rolls us

in the trough of a tidal wave? How did we get to be so many?

I wonder what’s playing at the local movie theater.

Some Hitchcock or other, for there are many fanciers

in these unsightly parts. And who would want mothers 

for supper?

— from Can You Hear, Bird? (© 1995, 2017 Estate of John Ashbery. All rights reserved. Used by arrangement with Georges Borchardt, Inc.)