This Year Will Take From Me
What is it like there, right now?
The cool flash of what serious is—
the ice has begun to unclench.
What will happen. All this leaving. And meetings, yes. But death
falling on each of us, the departed and the leaving.
The dead man looked like this. No, that.
The landscape usually contains the solution to what’s lost.
Out the window I can see dead leaves ticking over the flatland.
The few birds at my feeder watch the window.
It is as if we have all been lowered into an atmosphere of glass.
The eyes of a thin woman sixty-three years old search the shadows.
Vaults, cages, bars, curbs, bits, bolts, fetters.
Invisible, our ghosts starve, while the rest of the world keeps on eating.
To the one who sets a second place at the table anyway:
Come and carry me there
Let us poem a place where you cannot erase us into white space.
Source & Method