COLD HEIGHT, SEED-soaked,
what lives toward shows the marks:
auk and owl, insect, horn,
leaf-borne or buried in dirt.
All the sun-soft sheep.
Things the night takes away.
Over the grove, freed of hive,
a bee lifts from its summer bed
to a slit of light one deep
telling its own stung way.
Small, and it lives toward the swarm,
rare from the cluster and blind.
Age, a parcel of rag, ay drag
under open sky.
As if ay lived that long
in cold and cave and chalk,
buried in light holes or soaked with night.
As if in the heat of birds.
Hand, one hand, and Ay tap my chest-
Here, where father built-
then pasture hims shadow, tend him,
coming from sleep as all things do
alive toward the first fires of day.
from AY (Tupelo Press, 2014)
|Poetry Center Readings:|