Sudden Scattering of Leaves, All Gold

Sir,
the flies assemble
like so many parts of a working argument
around what proves it. No sign, not yet,
of the rains you spoke of. -Will they come,
ever?
pppppppp It's day, mostly. The light
extends like truth, the truth like
a hand extending at the same time as
it recedes.
pppppppppp What is that like?
One moment, I'm a pitcher of
milk tipped dangerously forward; the next,
a band of pilgrims, pilgriming
toward the latest report: pieces of heaven again-
here, on earth.
pppppppp Between tenderness
and violent force, if the choice is easy,
why then does each seem equally, with the same
persuasiveness, a form of luck
beneath which-
ppppppppppp beneath which, I
should know better?
pppppppppppppppp In the meadow, in
adoration: am I not yours?


From THE REST OF LOVE (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2004)

 

Poems by Carl Phillips

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Sudden Scattering of Leaves, All Gold