Things Worth Noting

Fred

The tern cut a thin circle from the sky,

all feather and wings and call.

It weathered the light, it wore its flesh

and its flight loosely as it curved

over the horizon, out of sight.

I imagine that it does not know the patterns it follows,

does not remember that it followed the same path

not a year ago, that its memory cannot trace

that same thin circle, loses its place in the seasons,

the annual reckonings, in the home of grounded sticks.

I dreamt in splinters and slivers that night,

carry through the day the notion that I can

follow in its wake, answer

its one note question with my own.

Seven days it took to cross this fiction,

measured in sheaves of seconds, quivers of hours.

I retain the suspicion that there is no melody

that I have not yet heard. I unfold my hands and spread them,

in front of me like a map. I wear this flesh loosely.

Labels: Fred

2/21/2009 11:54:00 AM

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