THE COLLECTED DISCOGRAPHY OF MORNING
I went on a trip when I was 16.
Concrete boiled in ballets of paisley,
trees coiled and uncoiled, writhing, it seemed,
in ecstasy. She said I was merely seeing
time itself accelerated. I never questioned this.
A cold day I will walk
around the courthouse, admire the resin-cast
replica of Liberty, smile as people leave
the Lutheran church for their meals of shadow.
I will think
how it was years ago,
think around the rain-tight skin,
the clothes that spoke, the jeans
that fit, drum-tight, the purse of mandalas,
incantations, the money
like lost wings.
I will play the collected discography of morning,
the rain, the house carved from bone. |