And though it’s the roof that leaks
you will be buried inside a stone
kept wet day after day for the echo
sea ice prepares from the drip
it needs to drain –this ladder
will end with nails and a hammer
where one wall will slip, already
is leaning into another then another
till all Earth becomes the Nile
and you are in the attic, rising from a shore
though it’s the sky that’s hidden, collapsing
empty under the cold rain now ready for you.
*
They’re still missing though this tree
waits here for its leaves
returning home as moonlight
where you count the waves
from a shore while some breeze
is learning to fly the way these dead
are now the stones side by side
in close formation still circling down
for the lost, the needed –you become
water, let these dead drink
from your arm, leaving it empty
abandoned, sifting the grass
for a field that’s not from a plane
not from the sun or falling behind
–that’s not wet, that’s the one.
*
It’s your usual County 481 though your eyes
can’t smell the straight line beginning to open
make possible the slow climbing turn ahead
–they still believe such a scent is the song
brought by a ship run aground for its sail
used, torn, can still be seen in the stretch
that has become your heart –on every side
licking the tar while your eyes
sniff for the lost the best they can.
*
Every door now is North
letting in the cold though the knob
still corrects for drift, the lost
and the way in that never closes
comes with a bedside lamp
to warm the room as if it
no longer moves, has become
the small hole in your chest
that points in only one direction
to keep you from falling asleep
–with both hands you cling to the dim light
turning you on your side, still too early.
*
From here, a train will do, freight cars
end on end, overcome with gravel
that needs to be some place else
–you have to leave by yourself
–nobody can do it for you
though you hold one hand in the other
tightening it till the rails
are water and you drift downstream
the way a small stone lifts the sea
as moonlight and you arrive alone
on the cross-ties made from wood
that is not a river to cross, welcomes you
by stretching out, taking you along
with no one where the whistle ends
except the so much time that passed.
