Those two dark syllables, begin,
offer no sustenance,
Nor does this pale squish of September sunlight unwound
Across the crabgrass.
The silence is cold, like an instrument in the hand
Which cannot be set aside,
Unlike our suffering, so easy, so difficult.
Still, the warmth on our skin is nice,
and the neighbor’s pears,
Late pears, dangle like golden hourglasses above our heads.
„It’s just description,“ she said,
„they’re all just description.“
Meaning her poems … Mine, too,
The walleye of morning’s glare
lancing the landscape,
The dogwood berries as red as cinnamon drops in the trees,
Sunday, the twenty-ninth of September, 1991.
From the top … Beginning in ignorance, we stick to the melody –
Knowledge, however, is elsewhere,
a tune we’ve yet to turn to,
Its syllables scrubbed in light, its vestibules empty.