There are trackless tracks in a trackless sand
and the time it was but a morning.
The darkness bright
and the daylight yet approaches,
the grass underfoot only dampening
and the city-reflected clouds
hinting only at obscuring
the brightest stars,
blazing fast and imperceptibly
around the pole star, receding.
The lawn underfoot still lined
by the morning’s cutting.
And from Siberia
the girls will return
And I will hold them in my arms
for the beating of my heart
And they will dart off
for their endless desires.
But for a moment, theirs will beat close
and I will hold the porch door open.
I write my night card:
How could you already be awake?
I have my own reasons,
sitting in my bathrobe on my back patio tonight.
The trees in your yard are black, black blotches
linked by black branches and black trunks
lit from below by the light
on the brick apartment block across our way.
The air overhead is almost glowing white-black,
warm and thick,
a humid blanket with almost frozen starlight prickling
through.
The globe beneath my metal chair,
spinning impossibly fast.
But who could tell by looking?
At my near horizon, a constellation of yellow-white lights,
points sparking now from yesterday’s sun.
The lightning bugs –
glowing, curling afterimages in my mind.
Did you send them to signal me?
Bugs all around me, chirping and rasping,
some pausing now and then as if for my answer.
It’s the middle of my night
and already the sun shines in Siberia.
From here I think that I can see your sparkling lights.
Are they your eyes?
There are trackless tracks in a trackless sand
and the time it was but a morning.
The darkness bright
and the daylight yet approaches,
the grass underfoot only dampening
and the city-reflected clouds
hinting only at obscuring
the brightest stars
blazing fast and imperceptibly
around the pole star, receding.
The lawn underfoot still lined
by the morning’s cutting.
No comments:
Post a Comment