Looming Upon the Horizon (i, ii)
i
Some of what you taught me to love
a photograph filled by the field’s fog pollens up from the mud, croaking
the garlic light thins on the horizon a finger of wet chicory
the lift of language barrier’d by fence tires from birdshot holes
a family ballasts by the curve of the land along the sea’s long liquid neck
Cape Breton undresses in winter seas
the swift sound of scattering wings clip space between window and wash
the far-lost long-ago forecastle from which you once pulley’d down the sky
a kite of birds and telephone line eclipse stones and the heart’s murmur
a family gathers beneath a fallow wall, dusts into the knees of gutters
and grassy corners keep our hearts unkempt
bone and feather-less wing, knobby beak and elongated rib of throat
all that is left of our singing when the song has gone wrong
all that is left when the singing has gone rung
in the sermon in Falmouth strokes of words ink into the blackened walls
the music comprised of a shift of shade vocalizes light
in the yard between two maples, laughter hangs from clean sheets
the sailors and the mothers go weak at the knee all week
a novice swallows salt air swearing down the sky after a kitten claws stick in,
the cat’s chirp its only defense
author's night: this is part one of a two-part poem; the 2nd part will appear next week
