February 2, 2018Harping
How have I walked so far, filled so many hats
with leaves, to find a forest where no leaves fall,
where each new page grows out upon the last
and the boughs lay down like the arms of cloaks
in a cloakroom. The wind speaks up, loses its way,
starts over. I drop my arms, too, and think silly
thoughts about prayer. How have I slept so long
that I’m this awake. I’ve so much reading to do
and for once I’m up to it, starting with the nearest
branch. With bread and a lantern I could read
into the night. With no lantern I could be night
dreaming aloud for each tree. When was it I
decided to stay poor, poor as a library, so I could
walk like this. Where did I set my hat. The smell
of mud, of books wasting in the mud, sweetens
into something like straw. It’s a red smell, but not
urgent. Nothing’s urgent here, certainly not these
questions. I ask them because even the mouse
has a song and the mockingbird mocks it openly
and the river tends to digress and hangers
chime in a cloakroom. This is the sound the air
makes with me.
from #58 - Winter 2017