Half moon over the post office, something flickering - blue then red, like those tin sparklers we played with in the 1970s - on the opposite horizon. The chickens murmur when we enter the barn late. A grasshopper on hot stone as if October weren't already lost. The cat hunkers low in wet grass, then leaps into the ferns where something unfortunate happens. In the end, it is not a metaphysical inquiry, nor is philosophy especially helpful. Shall we travel then to Utica? Once down what does not rise again? Gently spreading the last of this year's raspberry preserves over fried sourdough bread. She watches me undress, her eyes seeing something far away, like the white sail of a boat between high waves. Christ going as a dragon this Halloween. Soon, my dear, you will have a most exquisitely difficult anarchy, more vivid than any dream. This anchor, this saddle pad, this bead of blood and sorrow.
Post a Comment