Wyn Cooper

Eden Sway

Eden incendiary
writ in the formulary
of unscientific jargon.

History of corollary
connections made early
before these constellations
formed a post-punk band
called Mopey Corruption
only to discover after dark
the ecstatic moon shooting
stars and lunar rain.

Oh to be insane again
to dance the short night away
the crowd on X a single sway. 


Pomegranates are magnets 
that attract us to this island
once filled with famous magnates
who had to flee or lose their fortunes.
They chose the former as we choose
the latter, spending it all here
where dollars are useless
except to start a bonfire.

We would be remiss not to mention   
the problems with violence,
getting robbed of every notion
we ever held of this place,
every last thought turned in-
side out for all to take in.


I walk down the bright sand dune (talking to God)
toward the lake, know I won't arrive (survive)        
unless the careful steps I take match (point)
the sun's ability to stay awake (love)
until the hill stops falling away (evermore).

No one watches or bothers me until (until)
the sun has fallen off the horizon (green ray)
not to be seen for several days (at least)
or so the man on the horse said (in Spanish)
as he rode down the same hill (in English).  

I follow his tracks, they disappear (fear)
into sand blown by wind I've felt (cheeks) 
before, into eyes that see and ears (my own)
that hear how serious it's become (remains).


Two rhythms: a conga, a snare  

Insert (dramatic) dialogue here:

	He said     She said 
	They argued     They agreed

Pan to same couple strolling
on large perfect English lawn
she stretches her step 
to try to match his            

Beyond them horses in a meadow
nip the buds of tulips 
behind a stone house on a hill
no one lives in anymore

Soften percussion here
slow beat of a quiet heart

The afternoon turns to evening
the tea too weak to move them
thus the return to dialogue      

	You wouldn't
    	     I would
	You wouldn't dare
    	     Just try me

Closeup of couple arguing
she takes his point 
(her face in knots)
but he doesn't notice 
(his head in his hands)
the lamp behind them burning.


Wyn Cooper has published three books of poems, most recently Postcards from the Interior (BOA Editions, 2005). His second CD with novelist Madison Smartt Bell, Postcards Out of the Blue , came out in April 2008 from DogJaw Records. For more info, www.wyncooper.com.