A Poem by John Ashbery

by Mark Bibbins, Editor

A New Desire

Not so good anymore,
post avant-garde. How’s that?
Find anybody still puzzled up.
Your marcelled feet were on the stage:

If you could save our container
in Pennsylvania in October…
The fire broke out / declared itself.
We drank the grass, drunken fish,
in servile mode. An antique something about it.

You’ll have to pay for brunch — I’m too excited.
Milk and carrots from the editor at
my beloved Sierras!
It passed inspection,
or they’ll have found that too:
Fully understand
(gonna close some time,
pudgy rules, hyper airlines,
lifter-upper — a boomlet, so he said).

There goes another one belies
any significant pores,
and everyone at home, officials stressed.

Don’t slide down the ones John says they still aren’t using —
the worst driveway in
western Connecticut.
He’s right — it shouldn’t do anything,
culprit shoes. Why many have passed on to the sun.

John Ashbery (1927–2017)

You will find more poems here. You may contact the editor at poems@theawl.com.