I read the last poems
of Jim Harrison, sitcom
laughter spilling in from
the other room. The tail
of my cat flicks with every
surge. He can't sleep.
I can't read. Inaudible.
Laughter. Pause. Laughter.
Last night I walked alone
and the moon was nowhere
but in the same place.
I walked and walked without
light and stood to listen
to the breathing of horses
in an even darker barn.
On the train, the mandolin sound is discarded
like a cigarette smoking itself on the curb.
What can be said of nothingness can be said
of everything busy and lonely. The world rots
away like apples in the fall. I bloody the inside
of my mouth with worry. Buskers and Salvation
Army bells, everyone is wanting, everyone
is earthly. But I can feel every fiber of myself
being pulled up toward sky, and behind sky,
darkness, and behind darkness I am reassembled,
I am the deer standing head bowed at the fruit,
light-years away from what was once a painful
human longing, a hunger I carried like a backpack
into the woods and never returned.
We will be inheriting soon
real reality, all
the peace of the universe:
unending night and the still hugely nameless
majority of the stars. – Franz Wright
I’ve read that the light of stars slows considerably
in water, trapped there, nothing but reflection.
It gives us a chance, on earth, to see them.
Now when a loon calls from an obsidian lake,
I think of you. How you were always looking
into the mouth of things.
When a trout is lifted from water, the universe
is lonesome. I wonder — is it peaceful, out there,
in all that is unending?
On earth, I am left to believe that at the outskirts,
in red, we are loved.