[]

That it’s all
exile and interlude, that the grass
escapes me, the implements hang heavy in my hands

that the roads are narrow but the wind is mine
the wind and the rain and the big skies, the light
spilled and gathered, deck after deck of it

that all it amounts to is ash leaves, angles
shapes and shifts, a forgetting
as the rain forgets itself and the lake repeats

the same first thought, that wherever we turn
is on its umpteenth rerun
that when it comes to earth or air or water

the miracle is the walking as if you’d never entered
as if you’d never been there.

5

  

Copyright 2008 Disclaimer