ON GEORGIA O’KEEFE’S ‘PELVIS WITH THE DISTANCE’
Little finally
separates us
from the dish rag
sky, which is all
that might remain
of us past
a polonaise
of clouds
even as these
light-bleached staves
cut sharply
to the center
of something
as free from
time as the colorless
haze always at
the far horizon.
Relic, polished
with the litanies
of wind, this saddle
of old light
admits its absence—
a small round star,
portal, last vowel
for all our longing
to touch things,
to be in this world
if only to sing
mutely as the dust
through the air
without us.
—from Rattle #14, Winter 2000
