New moon turning its face toward the empty nest high up in the black catalpa, the tree's limbs etched against the evening sky yesterday & now simply more blackness at 4:00 a.m.
a trailer truck on Highway 95, the glass slide whooshing guitar strings, a riff existing somewhere between the major & minor modes
someday the whole story will have been told & the constellations will continue to glint, small glass shivers strewn above this January's frozen fog
Some night once we’re all asleep will we rise
will we rise to a solarized new moon & the atmosphere of a black & white film except without the soft focus
will we rise & say this is what I meant to say all along
will we rise & nest in the catalpa’s black fingers, the glass slide’s icy rush up the guitar strings toward the octave, the trailer truck whooshing south- southwest
will we rise & say my heart is in my hand & mean it so much it flies off, a birdcall in a blue foggy dawn
it is a very long time ago driving thru night south-southwest thru the Owyhee desert before the crows glided across the sagebrush bluffs, the stars are shattered glass in every direction
will we rise & go back to a place we’ve never been a glass sliver from a votive candle
will we say my heart is in my hand & it’s glass
the glass slide existing somewhere between the major & minor modes
New moon turning its dark face toward us etched against this night sky in the wordless frozen fog
Jack Hayes
© 2010
“In every heart there should be one grief that is like a well in the desert.”
No comments:
Post a Comment