Last Night's Moon,"
"When will we next walk together
under last night's moon?" - Tu Fu
March aspens, mist forest. Green rain pins down the sea, early evening
cyanotype. Silver saltlines, weedy
toques of low tide, pillow lava's black spill indelible
in the sand. Unbroken
broken sea.
-
Rain sharpens marsh-hair
birth-green of the spring firs.
In the bog where the dead never disappear,
where river birch drown, the surface
strewn with reflection. This is the acid-soaked
moss that eats bones, keeps flesh;
the fermented ground where time stops and doesn't; dissolves the skull, preserves the brain, wrinkled pearl in black mud.
-
In the autumn that made love necessary, we stood in rubber boots
on the sphagnum raft and learned
love is soil–stronger than peat or sea–
melting what it holds.
The past
is not our own. Mole's ribbon of earth,
termite house,
soaked sponge. It rises, keloids of rain on wood; spreads, milkweed galaxy, broken pod
scattering the debris of attention.
Where you are
while your body is here, remembering
in the cold spring afternoon.
The past
is a long bone.
-
Time is like the painter's lie, no line
around apple or along thigh, though the apple
aches to its sweet edge, strains to its skin, the seam of density. Invisible line
closest to touch. Lines of wet grass
on my arm, your tongue's wet line across my back.
All the history in the bone-embedded hills
of your body. Everything your mouth
remembers. Your hands manipullate in the darkness, silver bromide
of desire darkening skin with light.
-
Disoriented at great depths,
confused by the noise of shipping routes,
whales hover, small eyes squinting as they consult
the magnetic map of the ocean floor. They strain,
a thousand miles through cold channels;
clicking thrums of distant loneliness
bounce off seamounts and abyssal plains. They look up from perpetual dusk to rods of sunlight,
a solar forest at the surface. Transfixed in the dark summer
kitchen: feet bare on humid
linoleum, cilia listening. Feral as the infrared aura of the snake's prey, the bees'
pointillism, the infrasonic
hum of the desert heard by the birds.
The nighthawk spans the ceiling;
swoops. Hot kitchen ai
"When will we next walk together
under last night's moon?" - Tu Fu
March aspens, mist forest. Green rain pins down the sea, early evening
cyanotype. Silver saltlines, weedy
toques of low tide, pillow lava's black spill indelible
in the sand. Unbroken
broken sea.
-
Rain sharpens marsh-hair
birth-green of the spring firs.
In the bog where the dead never disappear,
where river birch drown, the surface
strewn with reflection. This is the acid-soaked
moss that eats bones, keeps flesh;
the fermented ground where time stops and doesn't; dissolves the skull, preserves the brain, wrinkled pearl in black mud.
-
In the autumn that made love necessary, we stood in rubber boots
on the sphagnum raft and learned
love is soil–stronger than peat or sea–
melting what it holds.
The past
is not our own. Mole's ribbon of earth,
termite house,
soaked sponge. It rises, keloids of rain on wood; spreads, milkweed galaxy, broken pod
scattering the debris of attention.
Where you are
while your body is here, remembering
in the cold spring afternoon.
The past
is a long bone.
-
Time is like the painter's lie, no line
around apple or along thigh, though the apple
aches to its sweet edge, strains to its skin, the seam of density. Invisible line
closest to touch. Lines of wet grass
on my arm, your tongue's wet line across my back.
All the history in the bone-embedded hills
of your body. Everything your mouth
remembers. Your hands manipullate in the darkness, silver bromide
of desire darkening skin with light.
-
Disoriented at great depths,
confused by the noise of shipping routes,
whales hover, small eyes squinting as they consult
the magnetic map of the ocean floor. They strain,
a thousand miles through cold channels;
clicking thrums of distant loneliness
bounce off seamounts and abyssal plains. They look up from perpetual dusk to rods of sunlight,
a solar forest at the surface. Transfixed in the dark summer
kitchen: feet bare on humid
linoleum, cilia listening. Feral as the infrared aura of the snake's prey, the bees'
pointillism, the infrasonic
hum of the desert heard by the birds.
The nighthawk spans the ceiling;
swoops. Hot kitchen ai
( Anne Michaels )
www.QuoteSweet.com