| Evening
Prayer Someone has cut the
grass. Someone has cut your tall
new grass, the sweetness
smears a wild raw dress onto the air, and she
is rising, turning now,
in sun, in wind, and she
is free...
Walking home
I saw the shadow of a bird, like a heart, like a
scythe.
I saw the shadow-wings cross through a wall.
The vacant-lot
weeds, too, swayed there. And thistles,
pods. Terrible
silky wall, abandoned warehouse, thigh...
And the elms, burnt now, were young
all over it, and the wind
into its
fatigue...
But the bird, fistful of time and sinew, blue,
dragged down over the cinderblock by light, lawed
down and
brushstroked down--how he went through, went
abstract,
clean. Not hungry there and not afraid. Thou
shalt
dash it to
pieces, then, Hand-in-the-light, this potter's
vessel, vast atomic
girl, shall clean it further, further, spill
the hollow from her, know her?
|