The nightly whine of pickup trucks bouncing through the sumac beneath the
Co-Operative power lines， country & western booming from woofers carved
into the doors.
A trace of smoke when the wins shifts，spun gravel rattling the fenders of
cars， the groan of clutch and transaxle，pickup trucks， arriving at a friction
point，gunning from nowhere to nowhere. The duets begin. A compact disc，a single
line of muted trumpet，plays against the sirens pursuing the smoke of grass
fires. I love a painter.
On a new canvas，she paints the neighbor's field. She paints it without
trees， and paints the field beyond the field，the field that has no trees， and
the upturned Jesus boat，made into a planter，"For God so loved the world. . ." a
citation from John， chapter and verse， splattered across the bow the boat spills
roses into the weeds.
What does the stray dog know， after a taste of what is holy? The sun pulls
her shadow toward me， an undulant shape that shelters the grass，an unaimed
thing. In the gray house， the tiny house， in '52 there was a fire. The old
woman， drunk and smoking cigarettes， fell asleep. The winter of the blizzard and
her son Not coming home from the Yalu.
There are times I still smell smoke. There are days I know she set the
fire and why. Last night， lightning to the south. Here， nothing， though along
the river the wind upends a willow， a gorgon of leaves and bottom-up
clod browning in the afternoon sun. In the museum we dispute the poet's
epiphany call—— white light or more warmth?
And what is the Greek word for the flesh， and the body apart from the
spirit， meaning even the body opposed to the spirit? I do not know this
word. Dante claims there are pools of fire in the middle regions of hell，but the
lowest circles are lakes of ice，offering the hope our greatest sins aren't the
passions but indifference. And the willow grew for years With no real hold upon
the ground.
发表于 2016-7-10 11:41:07