He’ll go to a High School for Boys | His legend will live on there | under horse chestnut shades | oozing through copper pipes | dripping into oblong enamel basins | at the height of summer / as harsh cicadas scour the air, and in crisp uniforms | pressed by parents who want admirals of them | young men with high fine voices and moments | of angels’ temperaments | will push their squeaking bicycles between the fields | and pause | and be aware of him | their great | predecessor | a haunting presence | a translucent mountain looming over them and melting up towards | the white and soft blue-grey | mountains of the September clouds

He is the delta, feeding the springs of all the rivers and their tributaries, their small clear mouths | wait for his rain

They will puzzle over him most terribly | those young men | listening so studiously to early 90s hip hop and | painting their model soldiers while | wondering about jazz and | how all of this fits into girls, the half of a | peach, the silver | static of the fuzz: he will put them | in a quandary | but then | most things do put them in a quandary, the edge of a mysterious world is forever | encroaching into their world of | intense concentration and disturbing | the various forms of their | pure mercurial passions…

He’ll marry his childhood sweetheart, and be faithful to her | He’s just that kind of man | His home town is one of those | two-faced affairs | dull and provincial to most natives but, to outsiders (those who never actually visit) | possessing a gloomy cachet, exuding the reputation | of a place that is obdurately itself, idiosyncratic almost | to the point of the saturnine, yet too sincerely limited | to achieve the melancholy distance of irony | or the prestige and luxury of narcissism

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