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letra de knoxville: summer of 1915, op. 24 - christian reif & julia bullock

it has become that time of evening
when people sit on their porches
rocking gently and talking gently
and watching the street
and the standing up into their sphere
of possession of the trees
of birds’ hung havens, hangars
people go by; things go by
a horse, drawing a buggy
breaking his hollow iron music on the asphalt;
a loud auto: a quiet auto;
people in pairs, not in a hurry
scuffling, switching their weight of aestival body
talking casually
the taste hovering over them of vanilla
strawberry, pasteboard, and starched milk
the image upon them of lovers and hors-m-n
squared with clowns in hueless amber
a streetcar raising its iron moan;
stopping;
belling and starting, stertorous;
rousing and raising again
its iron increasing moan
and swimming its gold windows and straw seats
on past and past and past
the bleak spark crackling and cursing above it
like a small malignant spirit
set to dog its tracks;
the iron whine rises on rising speed;
still risen, faints; halts;
the faint stinging bell;
rises again, still fainter;
fainting, lifting lifts
faints foregone;
forgotten
now is the night one blue dew
my father has drained
he has coiled the hose
low on the length of lawns
a frailing of fire who breathes…
parents on porches:
rock and rock
from damp strings morning glories hang their ancient faces
the dry and exalted noise of the locusts from all the air
at once enchants my eardrums
on the rough wet grass
of the backyard
my father and mother have spread quilts
we all lie there, my mother, my father, my uncle, my aunt
and i too am lying there
they are not talking much, and the talk is quiet
of nothing in particular
of nothing at all
the stars are wide and alive
they seem each like a smile
of great sweetness
and they seem very near
all my people are larger bodies than mine
with voices gentle and meaningless
like the voices of sleeping birds
one is an artist, he is living at home
one is a musician, she is living at home
one is my mother who is good to me
one is my father who is good to me
by some chance, here they are
all on this earth;
and who shall ever tell the sorrow
of being on this earth, lying, on quilts
on the grass
in a summer evening
among the sounds of the night
may god bless my people
my uncle, my aunt, my mother, my good father
oh, remember them kindly in their time of trouble;
and in the hour of their taking away
after a little
i am taken in
and put to bed
sleep, soft smiling
draws me unto her:
and those receive me
who quietly treat me
as one familiar and well-beloved in that home:
but will not, oh, will not
not now, not ever;
but will not ever tell me who i am

- christian reif julia bullock

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