Catherine Simmonds
Well
Down the passageway
things discarded
remember
our old ways.
Our hands,
as maps
unfold
to lines
where here, I first saw you,
was lost a ring,
where here, a tree grew,
before you knew
how it rains so.
We grow still,
as gone beyond touch,
before love.
Each box opened,
fragment,
a detonation,
the sometime refusal
of summer
with nothing to tell
or skin
to open,
like fruit
be taken from,
touched
open.
A walk as far,
the grove,
need no maps,
blind,
the kernel alter,
older than hands,
cursed
is marks on a tree,
strike,
something’s broken
love,
something’s fallen for.
Here
stillness,
yields
slowly
like clay,
down the stair to the mirror
down
down
to the well floor
where stone vowels
swallowed
grow opaque in the silt.
Upwards -
a mile of soil
a disk,
the dim blink of stars.
Page(s) 98-99
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