to condos October brown,
autumn sunlight going
down. Here, Paul Anka,
no longer crooning
Fifties tunes,
hums lullabies to night.
Here, Sun Valley carpets
red as your eyes
soak up old men,
themselves absorbing winks
barmaids serve, fondling
pointed invitations
before fatigue sets in,
taking them petrified to sleep.
Lives here all wheeze
as one, mostly for young breasts --
breasts that wives, not clothed,
but naked near Anka's place,
also moan for. Here, flames
consume cottonwood, itself dead
since Hemingway blasted out his brains
another lost generation ago,
Idaho's only genius, flowing crimson
to death, fomentation,
peace, union --
testimony to Ketchum's insane games.
One mile beyond Sun Valley, above
lovers gone cottonwood bad,
his bronze bust, cloaked purple now
by mountain shadows, guards
some faded plaque, inscription saying
he dearly loved high, blue,
windless skies. You, here, like him
in wind -- clouds slipping pink
to black, grip no gun, no brilliance,
no courage to greet death.
Can breasts, even Jami's, rising
to meet night, or old ones
dying in time to fire,
keep you wandering,
in search of meaning, not just Sun Valley's,
but meaning Hemingway gave up on
when he squeezed away his life?
Or will you hobble hills to senility,
watch mates take their place
in the valley, outglow embers,
moan away Ketchum nights while you doze,
tightening your grip on the sky?