Saturday, June 29, 2013

Ghosts on Bones

When I cannot speak, I hate silence. When the trails do not open but close around me, I cry out in grief. One confronts desire in the middle of the night and finds no case for it. And yet.

And yet the day passes, somnolent and blue, as if the ocean itself were reconsidering geography. We write half a dozen letters and send not one, and too many little poems to count, and they drift like fireflies, who are not aimless but bent on love, against great odds. Cardinals rest in the front yard pine tree. We are all waiting for night: the cool night when the mail comes: and we wrestle again with composition.

Dogwood blossoms scatter across the grass, and one studies them against thickening bunches of clover. Behind the rhubarb are stones marking the graves of favorite chickens. Who mows around them protects his daughter, or means to. Heat, against which no remedy suffices.

And thus it continues. The invented center pretends to hold the universe together, and what is can only wait. What is broken eats us, until we are ghosts on bones, confused about east and west. Not even the image can heal us, who are so far descended into the ruined solar spiral.

On the other hand, sentences, these. Her voice is shy but melodic, like the brook in early fall, like warblers in the forest who are so hard to see. While the water boils for tea I eat a few handfuls of rice and slip an onion in my pocket. If I try again, perhaps she will meet me: on the familiar trail, when night falls.

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