Sunday, July 7, 2013

7 July 2013

Joanna Klink [University of Montana]


What is one hour
that I should care
that I should lose him again.

      We are each of us faraway
      animals, freestanding and
      steadfastly at white heat in our

inner ardors, midnight’s
fretted distress under a

      moon. Lechuza, for hours
      trunk-rapt in stillness, raises its

loaded wings, shedding
nacre over the lake.

      You saw it too, air
      and silver, a current of
      muscle curving through

space in its wake, blood
underflown in your ribs.
How to explain it never

      happened and was this real,
      screen-own or simple
      barn, one of the great

shadows moving inside
wind, wars loves disease and
chances, the malaise of

      ingratitude, arsenal of material
      energies and medicine
      to the stricken, all striving-

until-death crushed and
laced again into patterns of

      sound, road-dusted or sand-
      marshed, and the long slow

summer of creek water,
summer of high old trees
moving the light — all of it

      in the quick flint-struck
      fire we trade the next
      day in our eyes.

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