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woke at 3am
to the sound of rain a memory you in a silver downpour. as if presumed dead I didn't move just lay there listening. I must live where
the bones of the earth show must be not far from the silver breath of the sea where the weather is drunkard and unpredictable I don't wish to rest and lie down on pavement, I want to feel the angular miles and the drip of branches and name stars in the wrecking frost. I think of everything I gave up for the land: a good life, a normal heart. no one knows my name-- but the trees, thousands of them, stand by me. it is right, Durga it is better this way; the justice of bears a purer cruelty; the crown of red leaves fits. One, when I embrace a tree
it feels me no matter how canyoned the bark within the cracks even there deep chlorophyll wait with their green nets to gather the fish of my breath and throw back to me the fish of theirs; Two, the tiny beings that thrive in my gut, manufacturers, mariners, whose lives meted out in minutes swim in their sea of wondrous gifts where there is no fear of dark, no need for lighthouses; Three, the shape of accommodation the fathomless air takes as I move through it, how it closes behind me just as secretly leaving nothing but invisible ripples which spread out into the world without end. summer is falling apart
like a wobbly bicycle; maple keys chop the warm air into slices; acorns batter the earth to exhaustion; the whole hemisphere is tired of zucchini and the squirrels like corporate executives are robbing the earth blind of its fruit. Canada presses its heavy brow against us and everywhere the water is beginning to envy stone and silence. I am thinking of you again Durga; how you put a finger to your black lips and tucked me into a bed of cool white hills, then slid against my bones with a long sigh and kisses. I was not too young to feel sad, but there is a kind of respect in surrender; sometimes what keeps me warm has nothing to do with the air. when I ran
out of earth at the end of earth, there was the sea. I was lonely. the sky wasn't blue. I thought of you, who entered the water's glass and did not return. they say you were nude because the salt hates clothing. I thought of you until the bell- buoy clanged against the tide's hand. the ripples are old and indistinguishable from all the other ripples. the sorting, the sound of skipped stones, it hurts. strange how the world is constantly tossing things into the sea and the sea is not yet full. I have been thinking of
pride lately, how it coils itself around the Wound, becomes intractable as barbed wire strangling the excuse of an old fence-tree. you are full of it dear world, we are all full of it, and the clouds thicken. could be birds, dark birds or thunderheads but I am not afraid also remembering what the rain is really for what the oak does with lightning, what it is the cracked earth really wants, and I am thinking of surrender, a prehistoric art. |
Poetry LogPoems are posted here when I'm ready to share them. I often don't title my poems. The date you see above the poem may be the date it was posted here and not necessarily the date it was created. To see more, click on the Archives below. Archives
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