|Rusty Morrison [The Kelly Writers House]|
How to draw the constantly shifting selves together
around an object of scrutiny and let this simply be
the way that it’s raining again outside, so lightly,
hardly more than fog, so that I leave behind my
umbrella, open the door, then decide to just stand
at the very edge of the front porch, neither
immersed in nor protected from the suffusion
in the air of nearly imperceptible rainfall.
The dead, today, are flushed to fever with my own fending-off.
Let the cloud-face be a proposition of finding no face at all.
The axial force in a tossed-away stone. From which I gain no center,
yet go on encircling.
The day is a thin, blown-glass nest. Each of their deaths is an egg in it.
There is no disarray at the binding line between light and shade.
No uncertainty or censure between sky and branch.
Where nothing has gone, and everything missed before it
Listening for the split twig’s tact, the someone is coming,
its faux benevolence.
The suddenly red crow, glazed with evening sun, as if
to convince existence of its presence.
For our death party, I wear briar embellishments.
Climbing ahead of my fear in sudden sound —
tea kettle’s shrillness behind me,
I follow a more compelling noise I’m rising toward.
A noise without object slides freely through the bangles
that would embellish it, and the carefully executed
traps that try to expose it.
A pursuit attuned to fear’s voice
needn’t obscure other emotions,
but enhances my capacity to distinguish them.
Pasting this pursuit like a long strip of clear tape
across the morning’s tea, phone calls, checks to write,
to keep everything from slipping out of balance.
I listen for the proper acoustics.
Singularly, as it pertains to each encounter.
Skin is a close relation of future, maybe a daughter.
Witless as any surface to what it must witness.
Tree-line, water’s edge, places that borders will gather against.
What a body might verge upon, it can neither tame nor test.