It was a time whose fine details are blurred,
like landscape through a window streaked
with rain. The city I grew up in, mirage
of lights and midnight arrivals, departures.
Who said to me once, You write so well
about suffering? That gave me
pause. And another time, I am so glad
I don't have to think of things like that.
Trees bent by the long monsoon,
unceasing eddies in the lake; mildew
collecting intentions on the bathroom
walls— Do these, too, speak of suffering?
One afternoon we listened to music
composed on the spot, pulled as if silk
out of the air by numinous beings.
Years of training and practice
behind the sureness of the first key
touched, and then the next. Perhaps
this is how the agonies of choice
and doubt can be haltered. There
they are, where you've led and left
them in the meadow, quiet now
in the clover. They nuzzle the grass,
the soil, each other. When you call
to them, they come. It doesn't
matter if one limps, or if they've
seen better days.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
