A Longing for Those Who Lament
Each word is a fly foregrounding the gap of its silence.
I scan for microscales something
minute enough to radiate a thought that might be
flown into the carpel of snapdragon.
I can follow the minute in and out,
imagine myself at prayer in the doors of a mouth.
I can do this exercise
without itching now time is palliative and between bells.
It is the Corpse Pose.
It is not vulnerable to crushing by gravity well
do not think about time
or the twilights or the fore and the aft
or those orbits in feathery skirts or stemmy tiaras
witness to the gnawing, crepuscular dress
of what nears us. My space is a gown.
My space is a fancy helmet. I have chevrons.
I have the surplus of my inner hag. Her anise teeth
and oven love, her loose, wandering present.
She spars with the final leaf, which stutters on its mother tree.
She sneaks into the circus of bees
to rustle up compulsion, licks of
salt and sweetness, thick
as buffalo and mink. My space
is a ghost superimposed
on other time a lost-and-found for atoms,
burn-off and hope,
an everlasting prologue.