Pacolet 
Above the river a river
of watery light flows
through leaves of blue tupelo
where the soul may bathe
and be refreshed, ready
to resume its work:
steering the body
through the world,
keeping the heart
from sinking,
and tipping,
now and then,
the spirit’s white ladder.
Night Letter
Sleep like the sea tide
arrives quietly at night,
unmaking sense.
The lilacs were black,
made of licorice,
of grease, lilac
or quince, dark,
mother’s voice
from the cellar,
sealed in a jar.
Imagine a room,
a room without trees.
Quiet murky light
of the womb. Father,
whom God could not
please, passes slowly
into view, cold faceless
moon of me. The others
follow, click, click,
like a machine being
loaded and set.
A house without sorrow,
built from the boards
of sorrow. Why
does night dissolve
the mansions we raise
with our facts?
Gray shells
left strewn in the mind
at dawn, delicate as ash,
whispering what? |
