blackbird online journal spring 2002 vol.1 no. 1



Images from the Kingdom of Things

Sunlight is blowing westward across the unshadowed meadow,
Night, in its shallow puddles,
                                            still liquid and loose in the trees.
The world is a desolate garden,
No distillation of downed grasses,
                          no stopping the clouds, coming at us one by one.


The snow crown on Mt. Henry is still white,
                                               the old smoke watcher's tower
Left-leaning a bit in its odd angle to the world,
Abandoned, unusable.
Down here, in their green time, it's past noon
                              and the lodgepole pines adjust their detonators.


The blanched bones of moonlight scatter across the meadow.
The song of the second creek, with its one note,
                                                                         plays over and over.
How many word-warriors ever return
                                                          from midnight's waste and ruin?
Count out the bones, count out the grains in the yellow dust.  

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