This week from Ruth

Hi Folks,  I messaged with Anna and she suggested we post only one new or revised piece of work a week, using a "New Post" instead of comments on old posts.  That way things won't get overwhelming, and we don't have to search back through old comments to see if there is anything new. 

I am going to post a somewhat revised version of last week's "Non-Love Poem" for this week to see if anyone thinks I am more on the right track, and if it is less confusing.

I dropped the bit about the un-turned on car rolling down the hill, even though it was the impetus for this poem (since it's true) and I also thought it kind of went with the "not sparking hot enough" line. I tried to separate out the action a little, but I don't know if  it's enough to clear up the washline scene intertwined with the rest.

So any comments about this direction or a new direction it could take would be helpful.  I'd kind of like to use the theme about the observation of particles more, but haven't figured out where or how.  Or maybe it should be dropped, as well as the whole scientist thing.  (I did try to pick up "particles" with "sparks" later.)

 All comments/red lines and X's are welcome... Ruth
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The Physicist on the Hill, a Non-Love Poem


I drape a sweet scented sheet
on the line, and a beetle,
the same iridescent black and gravid shape
as my husband's VW, flops at the top
of the white percale border, then descends
with a buzz along the edge,

     like the days when John, in his air-cooled Bug, rolls
     from the lab's steep-streeted hill
     to our home, smug with success for his knack
     of observing how particles interact.
     Then the scientist treats himself to a splash
     of good country red from France
     to complement the earthy chicken chasseur 
     he taught me to prepare,
     before he drops to my limbs,
     slides down my skin,
     his heart not firing sparks enough to kindle
     my body nor warm the cold linen.

Back on the hanging bedclothes,

the scarab reaches the point where the fabric stops,

scarcely hesitates,
then hastens out of my domain

     like John in his Beetle, who ultimately

     leaves me with a recipe
     for fowl and a squeamishness
     about my sheets. 

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For reference, so you won't have to look back, here's the first version:

The Scientist on the Hill, a Non-Love Poem


I drape a sweet scented sheet
on the line, and a beetle,
the same iridescent black and gravid shape
as my husband's VW, flops at the top
of the white percale border, then descends
in silence toward the ground,

     like John's Bug, engine unfired, rolls
     down the lab's steep-streeted hill
     to our house.  Smug with his success
     to save a few ounces of gas,
     with his strategic knack
     for coordination with traffic,
     John treats himself to a splash
     of good country red from France
     to complement the earthy chicken chasseur 
     he taught me to prepare,
     before he drops to my limbs,
     slides down my skin,
     his heart not sparking hot enough to kindle
     my body nor warm the cool linen.

When the scarab reaches the point
where the fabric ends, it scarcely hesitates,
then hastens out of my story
into the unknown world

     like John and his Beetle,
     leaving me with a recipe
     for fowl and a squeamishness
     about my sheets.