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Porchlights, and: The Last Couples Leaving the Green Dolphin Bar

Porchlights, and: The Last Couples Leaving the Green Dolphin Bar PORCHLIGHTS / David Wojahn drill their yellow holes in evening and where you walk the houses go on drifting with their cargo. You've tried to sleep, but now you find your image gleaming from the puddled, sidewalk water, the payphone's light. You hold each other's gaze, but you know it's just your face, know this isolation doesn't scare, though you wanted, simply, to glimpse another life, the way new lovers do, even when they dress so shyly in the morning. Remember them? They ate breakfast on a porch in Maine, secretly ashamed of loneliness, how the whole intoxicating mess began again the night before. This is why the woman's fingers turned her napkin into flakes of snow, why the man would think of houses floating dully with their loads and watch a young dalmatian penned inside a neighbor's yard. It howled, and wound its leash around a tree, its radius a little smaller. The Missouri Review · 25 THE LAST COUPLES LEAVING THE GREEN DOLPHIN BAR / David Wojahn Because it was the end of summer the red moon caught in skittish treetops and our bodies made a kind of speech like breaking glass, far off. The young http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png The Missouri Review University of Missouri

Porchlights, and: The Last Couples Leaving the Green Dolphin Bar

The Missouri Review , Volume 6 (1) – Oct 5, 1982

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Publisher
University of Missouri
Copyright
Copyright © The Curators of the University of Missouri.
ISSN
1548-9930
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

PORCHLIGHTS / David Wojahn drill their yellow holes in evening and where you walk the houses go on drifting with their cargo. You've tried to sleep, but now you find your image gleaming from the puddled, sidewalk water, the payphone's light. You hold each other's gaze, but you know it's just your face, know this isolation doesn't scare, though you wanted, simply, to glimpse another life, the way new lovers do, even when they dress so shyly in the morning. Remember them? They ate breakfast on a porch in Maine, secretly ashamed of loneliness, how the whole intoxicating mess began again the night before. This is why the woman's fingers turned her napkin into flakes of snow, why the man would think of houses floating dully with their loads and watch a young dalmatian penned inside a neighbor's yard. It howled, and wound its leash around a tree, its radius a little smaller. The Missouri Review · 25 THE LAST COUPLES LEAVING THE GREEN DOLPHIN BAR / David Wojahn Because it was the end of summer the red moon caught in skittish treetops and our bodies made a kind of speech like breaking glass, far off. The young

Journal

The Missouri ReviewUniversity of Missouri

Published: Oct 5, 1982

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