Pultneyville

for John Ashbery

There's a sign at the lake which says First White Men

And I think it makes sense to be amused because it's

About the only sign of them, this time of year

At least. Even in season there were fewer tourists

As the water got so high, and this way along the lake

Promontories as well as the houses perhaps of friends

Were washed away for good. Angry littoral owners

Lay the blame on the joint commission where it belongs

And, of all the plausibilities, it seems the one

Most likely to make itself at home. Local interest,

Frankly, receded back across Lake Road; erosion

May be faster than it looks but it's one of the family,

Like Labor Day, and you settle in with it relieved

As soon as the newcomers have gone. This is how

The hamlet looked last year: these leaves, this sky,

The same legato lake. You can imagine bonfires

Making small town smoke without running afoul

Of even the latest ordinance: an unlikely place

For a phantom to arise. Still, I can remember the event

As if it happened here, a Phantom gigantic

Superb laying down his preposterous conditions.

Probably you've thought of it yourself; it's a

Coincidence I'd like if I were you, having your feet

On the shore as a kind of birthright to begin with.

It would do nice things for my sense of symmetry

To picture the old man on Long Island, looking your

wa

And pleased to see this lakeside of local orchards

Has taken hold. But there aren't many who know when

They've been vindicated by their own charm, and thus

His question with the little spine in it instead:

"Whose handiwork is this?" Of course you have the right

To remain silent, but there are enough tattles around

To put you both in your places and then discuss

How you got there to boot. Eventually one of them

Will drive out to Sodus and be astonished by

The constant lake, filling in for the land which

Has failed to advance. Ontario, he will later write,

Is the blue collision which gives the shore its name,

And in the long run this speculation will be accurate

Since it's the larger one. What's missing is this

Picture of your mother from last fall, her scarves

Shivering and the leaves drawn up about her feet

In the feeblest levees on the lawn. It was her way

Of doing what she could and, never mind appearances,

You have adopted it. Of course there's more to

Your story, but this could be enough all by itself:

This shore, high water, and the slightest leafy dikes.