Monday, August 20, 2012

Letters





No natural thing confesses,
Mole-silent & eye-sore,
Upside-down, the earth is still;
Along any moon-rift shore
Tides cast up a solitary shell.
The long dunes are quiet.
If, in the Pacific roar,
Animal secrets find release,
It is of death or caprice alone.
Muffled by water, by stealth,
Cradled in leaf by stalks
That sonnet & rill,
The smallest orchid tells
No secrets, a small blue mouth
With nothing to say;
Braced to the wind’s way,
The tenderest shoot
Casts a redundant shadow…
Still. I’ve heard field mice cry,
Constant threat from above,
Owl wing fluttering
When I was helpless to save
Its victim, to save anything
From itself & its own escape.
In that predatory swoop,
Moons & meadows
Wrinkled pins in a hush…
No natural thing tells all,
For what is at the lips
Is the nerves’ slow progress,
Sun’s battering, slip
Of the throat in distress.
I would tell all I could
About myself, if I did not know it
As a way of covering my tracks
                                                           When the wind was on me & the rain.