The Last Line

Equals Sign

 

I set the mirror down in the grass and the ground

Became the sky, the place where I once was. Westward,

The ever-line where the sky feeds the sea. I’m languishing

In a kind of exile—exile, an ancient word—from myself.

The mind is a metaphor; the metaphor, a form of mind.

 

The mirror (is) on the ground and the ground is endless,

And changed into a point. The lasting things we love

The most—the cello’s long-held minor note, longer

Held belief, fast-fleeing laughter—are music from

Another room, distant from us, with no demanding.

 

 

Dusk on the River

 

We left the Angel on the bench, pondering

Unholy Pigeons, when we heard the bells.

I shook my head to clear it—I could not believe

The Evening was coming. I asked my companion

If she knew what was on the other side of the Garden

Wall, and she pointed at the first stars, the new Moon.

It was as if reflection and regret were the same

In her eyes, so I headed for the River, a way out,

Seduced by constant movement, constant talking.

In the River I found something I could serve.

I stood in the midst of the swerving swifts

In their last passes over the passing water,

And gave up my only understanding—my meaning:

That, This, will never be more than the sound

Of the evening bells—not a warning, but a wakening. 

 

 

Not Even Past

 

A gathering of losses, you could say: Years,

The way we used to be, people. What am I

Now, but a cabinet of Dreams, a collection

Of What’s No Longer Here? What you are,

Particles of me. I stand before you, a mirror

To your mirror in endless reflection

Until the Darkness falls—

                          Solace,

Though, is so easy: Remembrance

A kind of forgetting—Nepenthe I hold

For your suffering, so much do I

Love, so much do I desire the Fruit

Of the Knowledge of Good and Evil,

Understanding unchecked by Vanity.