Oraisons Funèbres

Passing through the cut

You can be taken

as close or as far

from the bite machine

as you can recollect.

Summer victories

—healed hands, whole heart—

remain ultimate

even in shallow water.

Grass is growing

over the fire wreck,

crisp occurrences

breaking with hope through

a crust of gravel,

brick crumbs and seed hulls.

A new map achieved

every weekday yet

rescue collapses.

Three-quarters solace

in clove and camphor.

Sooty acorns clatter

and squeak on the roof.

What comrades must do, you have done

—exploring east through mountains,

boxed in longer boats suspended

from night skies—or flowing west

over the ocean, a blue star

far off, not yet invisible.

Your former journey, once hardened

in situ, in true numbers, square

and level, now must wear other

aspects more kindly, other ideas

in points, lines, shapes, surfaces

—crosses and rails—which cast

themselves into iron, into coal,

falling through blank pages,

falling through straw penance,

falling through pine needles

and salt, falling through winter's

silence into the uptilted mosaic

of dust overgrown, overtaken

by the next conquering season.

copyright © lcmt