Monday, August 25, 2008

A Wetness Like God

Tea apples.

A long poem about waiting, about the fear of hunger, also angels. Frightened by the way the stars appeared electric, the lycanthrope swallowed his pride, and cowered in the grape arbor until dawn.

Giblet blessings. And soil bearing a wetness like God. Yes, that way.

He wrote he wrote. As rapture would have, had it.

There are stones in the choir, potatoes in the pews. Frosty scrimshaw on the silver glass that overlooks. While outside the monastery, a little snow collects on the last of the wizened apples.

I can't forget you. I was writing before you but still. Now I am mortally tired of the word lake.

Milk, biscuits, and strawberry jam. "The way a slant of light falls I want to fall weeping." In October, a way forward. Like horses.

Cows get over it just by standing near the fence. It's time I'm worried about, not death, not the perennial broken organ of affection.

No comments:

Post a Comment