Saturday, June 25, 2011

Summer Mystagogy

for KB

In the ebb and dwindle
Of a summer evening ending
I like to think that eleven months
Of buried cigarette butts
Have bloomed into these zinnias
Bookending the walk.
I claim them as my mark.

The sentinel-hums of window
Air-conditioners attest
The cliché humidity of Virginia,
Contesting the minutes kept
By earnest cricket watchmen.
We are all paying rent,
Machines, insects and I.

Lying, then, upon the path,
Ears rotated ninety degrees,
Sounds once parallel are
Transposed, put perpendicular
And hewn again, cleaving
The warm, insistent ether,
Constituting new words.

Yet still the moon rises,
Presides like an elevated host,
As though the Word Incarnate had
An immovable monstrance made
Of it, had turned tides to homilies.
A more sure word, this, than my

Nighttime cantors proclaim.

Summer evening ending,
And I again beginning
The diurnal exit from agnostic
Schadenfreude. I know better now
The condition of the air.
Twenty-twenty hindsight might
Save me again today.


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