On Heaven Considered As What Will Cover Us And Stony Comforter
The longed-for is tiny, and tenuous as a syllable.
In this it resembles us.
In this it resembles what we’ve passed on and shucked off.
Interminable as black water,
Irreparable as dirt,
It shadows our going forth and finds us,
and then finds us out.
Horizon line like a basted
slipstitch that shines back,
Seasonal underwork, seasonal blueprint and burn.
Last stop. End of the end. No exit.
Autumn in override,
everyone long gone from the garden,
No footprints, wings furled, swords sheathed.
No gears, no wheels. A silence unimaginable.
Saint Sunday, leaves in free-fall,
A little light in the west, a night light,
to harry us home.
Page(s) 62
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