One Day We Will Want to Be Here

We were born clutching this thing, a feather in the river

And now we wander looking for the other, a wing

under a rock, maybe, in someone’s hair, or belly:

wild scream, ancient whisper. Under a wood pile,

in the middle of the country stands a man, alone

for thirteen years, keeping to himself a secret

well. The livestock know his mind. Each morning

it breaks over wheat, like a sun with its eyes closed,

carrying wood from the river, bits of moss, a heart

without an anchor. It says, Can’t stay here. In the middle,

everything spells out twisted heart, joy, at once. We are

born with him in his rib as fish, swimming upstream,

toward him, a mind the simplest middle-county stone

knows, There-is-Nowhere-to-Go-For-Safety.

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s