I mind less
that you go far away in time.
Once I had to harden myself to the idea.
Now I ask more of it, and you, and the carryover.
Those I find time for presently
do not bring this cup
of stars your listening makes.
Few of us are free of petty necessity, hurts
spun back to inflictions, ambition
rocking to exhausted desire. I worry
less that I’m not into this. I love
the curtain between us. The old space
of sailing, the birds that fly
so far from land.
Origin is Your Original Sin
Not to have touched your starting
point. Never to have reached for where
you are. To renounce ever splitting
a single fruit in half. Never to have fooled
yourself or others. To have no cause
for redirection. To let alone the long odds
and the favourable. Not to be this
or that. Neither spatialised
or spiritualised. To leave your bear
in the eternal winter dream of spring.
Not to emerge. Never to mate
or part with time. Not to be licked
into shape, never to mind the branching
acts, the superstitious rags you might
have tied to trees beside the wells.
Never around the mossy depth of wells.
Never a question of holiness, the steadfast
eye of subterranean water.
Never to wear entanglements
of air and blood. Never to see
the salmon leap. To feel no difference
between up and down. To get the soporific
movement of the sea
but neither its lifting or breaking
dreams. Never to feel the velvet curtain
dropping at the end. To touch as near to life
as music does. To have gone to no great lengths.
No distance, then, no ground
Like burning paper or shaved
ice, you’ll always appeal
for a bit more time.
I’ve tried to read your leaflets
wherever you’ve tacked them up.
When I catch up to you
I find you
covered with excrescence.
Your raised pours are chiefly there
for gaseous exchange.
I do not accuse you
of lying to the wind. Your fruit
has winter interest. It may be more
endearing than your bloom.
When your small fruits centred
in your shallow drum
I thought of a tambourine
before the metal discs attach.
You were a drum so scant
I could talk through
a drum for light
and untrained thrills.
In singing they call this
swaying at the back:
it’s joining something
glorious — without the risk
of doing it in.