Or did I mean to say prior witnesses? Sunlight at dawn decants into the river, the river rises near the bend, and the bend reminds me that all horizons are permeable. Permutative? Breaking skim ice on the trough, the horses waiting patiently nearby. Fly away, crow. Some seam or fold is near unraveled but refuses to be named. It is what it is? Two nights ago the crescent moon was so bright my heart ached - it dragged me through the Heavens like a discarded scapular - but last night there was only darkness. Secrets kept from those who take the vow are how the vow becomes sacred, don't complain and don't take credit, just keep the fire lit. For a long time it was impossible to be satisfied, no matter how many lost travelers I tore into pieces, but then I realized the nexus between childhood and hunger and nobody left or died again. Snow flurries at dusk, Fionnghuala and I gathering stones at the river to make an Advent wreath. Dad loved the Lukan nativity story, read it aloud every Christmas, it became like history to me, it became like family. I don't remember breaking up, I never do, is this why I'm so lonely? Midnight with its ebony wing, the sacred heart exploding all landscapes, and the one who wants us taking us by hand behind the church to take us roughly in the dirt there. What else could justify this excess we call poetry?
Post a Comment