Only when desolate and virginal, it appears.
Forsythia in flame and sweet fire of honeysuckle—
the day combed over the breezing water,
the walking path, the foliaged trees,
the brick front of a wall that we passed
down alongside, bothering to forget ourselves
with the simple chat of day. All amber
and poured-over concrete, dead to the world.
We moved along, industrial in our careers,
celebrating the experiments, mixing keyboards
in unprecedented fame. We thought over
light and bird calls, calling back to the trees
that had no name.
From a railing, I could see you
waiting. From a thorn, I could hear
the locust in the hay.
Now, what artifacts are left?
A scene that rises up: the glib sun, the drafts,
the obstinate piping. A final stop.
MAY 2008