Untitled
*
This cold candle uncertain where inside
a random turn and the sun
lost, a few weeks old
—who remembers the sun, frozen
though I wipe this wax
warm the dead who still dress
for the stillness :the smoke
led arm in arm —this table too
midair, raised into campsong
into tears, half twigs, half
a gray-white sleeve sent out
—the smoke you blow on a cake
vaguely toward the way
—she's been singing, her name
passed on to a child whose eyes
move toward the fire
toward the beautiful shoes it's wearing.
*
Again my cup lifted by its twilight
—I can't see the turns :another night
relentless corners, dead ends, clay
heavier than thirst, deeper, the spoon
unable to find downstream. It does no good
shattering another cup.
There's no wave for that last split second
the leap to its death upon imagined prey
—it was senseless to fill the saucer with sand
with wailing as if the water
had found my hand and this latest cup
apart forever. You, you understand
this death by hanging, the round tables
oak, the hand great leaves were holding
when it let go :all these cast-off handles
simon perchik
wait for this cup too.
It does no good, my hand is heavier
breaking as if the cracks led somewhere
—this cup filled with rippling :messages
rising from the bottom, louder, louder
each new cup my reflection louder :in my place
carries the lost spoon and evenings.
*
Even my rake once had wings
—so many branches and the sun
higher, higher :feathers
no one sees anymore but the sky stayed up
—this handle bends the way my feet
aching from headlong sweeps
and all night a great dipper
pouring more darkness
into a smaller heart :the sun
drenched with shadows
still digs for graves
and under these dying stones —for the last time
my arms around the sun, the rake
held closer than waiting
for the warm breeze at night :the far-off
grieving I somehow know is my own, come
for more tears :the endless sea overhead
—all night I watch this plumage stir
till my ankles and their soft leaves
at last one shoe somehow tighter
and I turn, look down at all the stars
all the tiny islands my rake
never forgot, tracing that curve
till one arm tighter, tighter
as if the sun too
died from thirst, in the darkness and away.
Page(s) 38-39
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