One does not turn to the rose for shade, nor the charred song of the
redwing for solace.
This past I patch with words is a flaw in the silvering,
There I find the shallow autumn waters, the three stolen pears,
The horizon edged with chalk, loose where the fabric frayed.
Each yesterday glacier-scored, each a dark passage illumined by a
I begin to fathom the brittle intricacy of the windowís scrim of ice.
For years, I managed without memory—stalled, unnumbered,
No more alive than a dismembered saint enthroned in two hundred
Now, it is hard not to say I remember,
hard, in fact, not to remember.
Now, I hear the filamentís quiver, its annoying high frequency, light
by which I read.
River mist, mudbanks, and rushes mediate the dark matter
Between two tomorrows:
one an archive of chance effects,
The other a necropolis of momentary appearances and sensations.
One, a stain of green, where a second wash bleeds into the first.
The other time-bound, fecund, slick with early rain.
As if to impose a final hermeneutic, all at once the cicadas wind down.
The gooseberry bush looms like a moon: each berry taut, sour, aglow.
The creek runs tar in the cloud-light, mercury at dusk.
Then the frogs start up.
Clay-cold at the marrow. A hollow pulse-tick.
And it seems, at last, Iíve shed my scorched and papery husk.