March 2009
In the morning –
I think that you called it morning
With the tallow moon still heavy;
In the morning –
I think that you called it mourning
black, like your raven,
split tongue calling in a jagged voice.
In the darkest unbreakable morning,
I went up to the ridgeline,
red sun spattered
on broken firs.
And below,
in our frail and vaporous house,
full of slow shadows and bent stones,
I drew a hollow map, in the small
of your back –
with suggestions of rivers.
And it was late, late, late
I came down
from Babel,
stepped out into the sound,
and drew blood on the water,
spilled into the setting sun.
In the darkest unbreakable morning
we struck the old moon
with our fallow eyes
in a hollow and vaporous house,
crouched like wolves wary
for the scent of man.
