My mother is a rug my sister
takes and beats over the river.
There we go again expecting something
old habit from Odin of throwing your
spear across the crowd, magic: to throw
across, throw the weight of a desire
over into some other body, with the
special weight of words whose letters
move themselves. These things know what
they’re about: a hex noises through the bushes
clatter of wings and twigs where birds
had been. Bush-falcons, wild and hard
to tame.
There was never a rug just a
glorious flaw we saw once wince into blue sky.
Desire was enough. Bicycles with no wheels,
mid-June and the pink Hawthorne heavy
in Proust’s young hands with news for
older Proust. Or he was old then and had to
grow young. Some things never let us go
never for all their time, wrestle with the angel
image caught in the glass until it tells
itself through, takes the habit backwards,
the old roads until you’re all worn away.
Karma colander, coulee, to where waters
meet the sea. To see.
Go ahead,
you can lift the window now that it’s empty.
No comments:
Post a Comment