Adam Tessier

& always the question Where to begin,
& when. My dear friend, Truffaut
begins a letter from '61, it's after

a delay of five weeks that I'm replying...
as if the friend hadn't already
noticed. A beginning already

late, like a season, like the sun
deciding its own moment to swing
up into unavoidable solstice

& leave us all duned in the heat & apogee
of another summer. Our summer,
solsticed & green. This summer,

the green of the lawn's plutonium
emeraldry, & greener even: the garden.

The beginning:         the garden
that we share with the neighbors.
In the beginning there was

a garden: this is a story like any other, O Love,
of love, & its attention to real estate.




Recently I sat down and discovered that two things about which no poet, no writer in fact at all in the history of letters, has ever written are the garden, and love. In all seriousness, I think it was Carrie Bradshaw who said, in an entirely different context, "Welcome to the age of un-innocence...Cupid has flown the co-op." "June" begins a lengthy group of poems that explore, in the long-loved novelistic arc of a summer, with its distinct beginning, middle and end, the garden and the lover, with complications not limited to the cloyingly perfect neighbors, and the small square of green that via the co-op agreement we are all, the four of us, legally bound to share. Denouement pending.