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Fred |
I.
I stand up, brush the earth and grass and sunshine
from my knees. If only we could see the stars
at midday, if only the galaxy mixed with the spires of pine
of this forest, tar
mixed with salt and the venom of time.
I can feel the breeze tracing out its rivulets.
II.
The world, the whole world, is laid out in this garden
Everything important to me is here
the cracks in the slate paths, fallen leaves, hardened
and rattling, the ants in their stupid, ragged lines,
the crumbling bark and the itinerant birds
calling their intertwined destinies to each other.
III.
I have decided that my room does not want to be a room
anymore. Each wall is shot through with tiny fissures
I can hear the beams folding themselves like limbs.
I've begun to prepare a pyre in the center of the floor:
(ordinary things, nothing bold) orphan socks,
spent bottles, copies of some books I am better off without.
IV.
I can only recall disjoint bones of our conversations now.
I've picked them over
all the sinew and flesh is gone from them
I can't even remember what the skeleton looked like,
assembled. It's the kind of thing that I wake up thinking
about, wondering if I dreamt about it.
V.
They fought all the wars already, our ancestors
did. There's nothing left for us to raise arms over.
Their battlefields are parks and museums, our schools
bear the names of old warriors and older murderers.
The swords are not plowshares exactly,
but they are rusted and useless. I abandoned them long ago.
VI.
I learned when I was young
that everything can be a solemn ritual,
letting my blood drip from my mouth,
tasting the dew before it binds itself to the ground,
the morning itself,
cold and crystal and silent.
Labels: Fred
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