Hanging out a Depanneur in the Fall.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Wish I were on a train instead:
small birches all in a row, tall and skinny with everything flat around them.
villages on a hill, the church at the highest point.
a wooden table on a lawn with misty glass bottles on it.
fences with thatches missing.
fields brown from rain-flooding.
patches of industry and back to another village on a hill, sprawling out into fields, into almost-forest.
a woman in a pink sweater is gathering twigs into a wheelbarrow.
a couple sits with a thermos watching the train pass,
and then to a middle-of-nowhere platform where old Polish women sit in long wool coats, hats, inherited earrings and sober looking shoes.
the vanishing point recedes, again and again.
a man stands, bicycle parked, by the tracks watching the trains pass as though he knew someone once who could be shuttling past
or the motion calms a wandering part in himself that he has never been strong enough to let wander.
Like the wiggling of ears, the passing trains whir his soul back into his body while his heels stay planted firmly on familiar soil.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
The fact that I'm posting again must mean that I have homework to do. Here's something that I posted a piece of a while back but I really like the whole thing now:
This is how she looked the day
the men harvested the nests and stood knee-deep in the river:
breath in cold gusts,
eyes slits of slate,
hands to her heart.
Thick, alluvial mud slid between toes
and she saw the sky lit with lightning;
bones like a skeleton-leaf though the water.
Summer passed that year without ritual.
I read how a voice falters,
how words flutter and fade.
Hers fills every crevice;
my hands wrap around echoes,
tiny bones grasping for age and wisdom.
The passing to and fro of grief, like the ocean's swell,
is the movement of logic and mystery;
sinking into pores as to sand,
the motion of memory.
Clasping water sounds,
(the markings of shells)
she dug her heels into earth and opened her palms;
seeds catching the breeze.
No dirt under nails,
no thumb to mark a spot, a hope, a prayer.
We are the folding, the unfolding.