Late in the Anger

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

I wake on this path   of this path   supine beneath swaying fronds and boughs

with the woman watching me and over me   wondering at our fled cities   our myriad parents all younger now than we

at the little we eat with our minds   The map will say we have driven ten thousand years to get here but there are no years in praise

and she has never slept and can finish no dream  Around us the pin oak leaves lie scattered   cupped and brittle as chitin

And my poor reason like an jowly man’s black and silver reflection obliterated by his sudden water in a toilet

And the largest self like a worm writhing each time against the hook’s barb

With my own mouth she insists  You must be forgiven by the facts of this life

And our secret goes out secret from us and returns in the finches jitting branch to branch  only so high and so low  through their habit of long succession  

Tuesday, January 20, 2015