Your postcard said, Nothing like a little disaster to sort things out.
Blueprints, sketches, such perfect houses in the photograph on the front,
all the lines true and in harmony. I took it with me like a paper charm,
searching for home, hit the road, looking for the exact spot
of my birthright, down the rustling path of thistles and nettles,
under a leaden sky, in the place where God once lifted the home by its hair,
nothing left but the kitchen and the bathtub where we all hid. The supper table
picked up and carried to the county over and laid so gently down.
When I saw you last in the bar in Brooklyn, you told me to sing. But I couldn’t
even speak. I laid my head in your lap, drunk at two am and felt your hand
resting across my back, reluctant, unsure of what I wanted, but knowing
it was a want too much for anyone to give in to, a halter
broke, some rip.
The skeletons of the trees are coming back to life now, sap like stars
risen again. Most anything torn can be mended. No real permanent damage.
The land where the house was
goes back to the plum-colored dusk, hooks and hoods of the hawks
perching in the Hemlocks, clouds and mounds of nebulae in the sky in the pitch night.
Frank Lloyd Wright said, nature will never fail you, though, I suppose it depends
on what you mean by fail. It’ll kill you for sure, Great Revelator.
You can hear the wilderness ad-libbing its prayers in the whip-poor-will and the cypress,
in the percussion and boom of bittern in the bulrushes.
Dead is the mandible, alive the song, wrote Nabokov.
The bones of our houses, the house of our bones
dropped in a sudden blur of wind and wings,
but our voices still throb and palpitate somewhere, by some rapture,
in memory’s ear, in the fluttering pages, behind the stars.
I have a song now I want to sing to you, but you’re long gone.
When you said I’m here for you, was that a promise?
to bury or drown beneath a huge mass
Whelmen: to turn upside down
To turn over and over like a boat washed over and overset by a wave
To bring to ruin.
The end of one part of the world, a story that no longer has a witness.
But I’ll sing it to myself. I’ll sing it to the small moth,
the size of scarcely a word,
Ad libitum, according to my desire.