Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into an artifice of eternity.

Thursday, June 26, 2014


~ For J.H. ~

We enter a green darkness
at the start of Summer,
and there sunlight weaves
the leaves into sheaves

of gold: the mined meadows
are turned and mined again,
and the fabric of the season
is rolled into bolts of straw.

You can smell the years
through the years -- the hay
harvests and the silage,
and the slow evening airs --

freedom lies in the tunnels
under the embankment
where rails curve and fear
like unspent pennies

is flattened on the lines --
combines advance down
their own lines to wheel
the ways of days around

and deposit them into banks
of memory where lifetimes
are redeemed for that turn 
that will not return again.

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