This is the time of all things read;
the time of books, clean hands, straw dogs,
shared looks. This is the time
that finds the time to settle down;
to open that smile with enormous plans;
to pound on metal rolled with rust;
to lie when lovers lie, alone, quiet,
in kitsch and style.
She wrote me:
Death for some is a careless cat,
one that lacks a voiceand love
and never plays chess.
But that is not my choice.
You see, I prefer the quieter sort;
the kind of death that stalks one
through shapeless blur, a caress of trust
and a lack of breathnow three, now two
a sweet bluff and a face that looks
of you, only that's not enough.
I remember the films during which you cry,
and the way you hide it, fiddling
with your change to make your eyes avoid
the two mice riddling some pocket full of holes.
I remember the nights you tried to pray.
You clasped your hands and dreamt up God
and what he may or may not do. And I,
following November, came with you.
I remember the calls you made, long,
arboreal affairs of historical silence,
but I thought it wrong to say I knew
that metaphorical was never your intent.
History never dies.
The rains are worshiped here.
They bear a name that all chant
in line, and with a script scrawled
by sticks and minds, each has its own piece
and place to finally say what should be said
to be erased.
Morning came early today,
and with itdread;
and with itrain.
She wrote me:
Soon is where the rockets stop.