The snow falls, picks itself up, dusts itself off
a sparrow flying like a leaf back up to its tree
The future does a backbend toward you, it's
what you can almost see, scrimmed
in the clouds which crowd the sky, elbowing, laughing
After that I see space and its influence in a bucket of
spinning water
and two calcium atoms shoot forth, twinned
photons traveling
back to back, arms unlaced, perfect
swimmers in the lit dusk
Where are they going?
First, to Holland, then
to calcium-kiss her bones
And in Holland the streets are made of water, the dolls &
dogs gather
round lit picnic tables like happy rags
The body is in the root cellar
When snow falls our dead gather close to our bones
because the cold's ghost has come back to haunt the
cold & the body,
too, is a happy rag
Tree, take a photograph of her thought, you can do it
with photosynthesis: silhouettes of seals appear,
a swarmed planet and its satellites, a celestial atlas
that breaks when tapped (it's glass)
Some giraffes, some elephants, a lion scatter
in the clearing; in the clearing
the leaves of the world turn toward the light as do the
letters of the word
the words are beautiful not for their accuracy but for
their dream:
words-are-arrows that loop between no-man's-land and
the wetlands, soft
flints flying toward their target
--words bird the zone--
when home was adopted as mother
area was given here
[a future of] all surface, no border
Posts
0 comments:
Post a Comment