Amplify the Silence
Jeffrey Cyphers Wright
Was it the cha cha we were doing, darling,
to Russian house mix high over East River
looking west past the gothic portals of Manhattan
Bridge, talking seamonkeys with Ted Victoria
and reveling in the discourse of heiresses and
ne’er-do-wells? “…Bridgehampton… Rivers…
Guild Hall.” The old cat taking pictures had our
table going bongos with Daria lifting her hem
and Ooloo and Maritza sticking out long tongues.
Yes. A good time was had by all and then,
forthwith, we went home and had each other.
Just your average safari into the good life
that typically presents itself to those of us who
report from the trenches between grit and glitz.
Trip Notes
Jeffrey Cyphers Wright
And then, of course, we lay down
to dance with the night sky
having been invited by the director
of the Van Gogh Museum’s wife, Rachel,
to stay at their houseboat on the Amstel.
It could be said, in fact, of us,
that we never had to pursue
happiness, it tracked us down
and overcame us like prey, like when you
left on your black stockings and white
garter or the way you always stole
sly glances that made your voice
when you spoke sound like the infinite
scales of a waterfall whereas I
was always doing something akin to
capping the moment with a mot juste
that fit like a Scythian finial
for sale in a store called History
across the street from the Carnegie Museum.