The River at Wolf
Coming east we left the animals
pelican beaver osprey muskrat and snake
their hair and skin and feathers
their eyes in the dark: red and green.
Your finger drawing my mouth.
Blessed are they who remember
that what they now have they once longed for.
A day a year ago last summer
God filled me with himself, like gold, inside,
deeper inside than marrow.
This close to God this close to you:
walking into the river at Wolf with
the animals. The snake's
green skin, lit from inside. Our second life.
We Go Through Our Mother's Things
When we started that day
to paint snow for earth
and sky for bread
then we knew it was time to light the last candle.
This ring is yours. This lamp.
Willi, Home
In memory
Last night, just before sleep, this: a bright
daffodil
lying in bed, with the sheet pulled up to its chin.
Willi, did I ever know you? The shine
in the lamplight! of your intelligent glasses,
round and humerous.
Did I ever know myself? When I
start bullshitting I see your eyebrows fly... This book
is dedicated to Willi,
whom I did not know,
whom I know. The words in my head
this morning
(these words came from an angel):
"It's too late to say goodbye.
And there are never enough goodbyes."
I know: the daffodil
is me. Brave. Willi's an iris. Brave.
Brave. Tall. Home. Deep. Blue.
Primitive Painting: Liberation Day
Everyone is wearing work clothes, old clothes, boots; and
old uniforms, painted green and brown, like trees. The
new government has asked everyone to assemble in the
center of the Old City, and has given everyone small
ribbons to wear, stiff flowers.
Two men in business suits are pouring wine into cups, at a
long trestle table; a few of the men and women have
begun to drink.
At the bottom corner of the painting is a row of bright
green leaves, like a signature. A tall man, in the
foreground, looks straight out into the painter's eyes; his
hands are crossed over his genitals. There are no children,
or animals, in this picture; no one makes a sound, or has
another side.
This is a desert, and they call it peace, this is Liberation
Day; this new government is drunk again, and the
painter's fear is white in his paint.
