The Adult Season

by: James Cihlar

A Parkour court in Leicester
will reduce antisocial behavior
among young men.
The flabby third acts of American lives,
a cotillion of bloat, poor motility,
the easy. “A bore is starred,”
the Village Voice wrote of Streisand’s
remake that I watch on the plane,
her four-octave range squandered.
With the collapse of Goldtrail Holidays,
the CAA wonders how to bring
stranded holidaymakers home.
Bjork bails out Iceland
whose bust wiped out Nottingham.
Not all chronology is decadence and science.
“Load every rift’ . . . with ore,” Keats told Shelley.
Yarn becomes a bow in a flash of hands,
butterfly bushes grow wild along the tube,
and swallows spiral and bank like hive mind.
No other physical challenge is as difficult
as holding a life in my ears.
A BBC Three program tells us that chronology
is more than the immaculate degeneration of our cells.
Depth of field is a corridor of stars,
and Clouds of Magellan shimmer
like Dame Edna’s rhinestones, a basket
of Easter grass, excelsior, a cabinet of Swarovski
crystals at Harrods, the surfeit of light that absorbs us
as we walk across the ocean floor
from the island to the mainland at low tide.