Good Friday, driving home
Not travelling; getting there. Traffic
Pouring into blinding light. But the fog
Looks enlightened, roiling over the hills--
Messengers might appear in a chariot
With news of the open-ended universe.
The groove I've worn down this road.
Back-lit sky, are houses near the coast
Blazing? My mind drags the pavement
Like a string of tin cans. There, horses,
Six, seven, grazing along the reservoir.
One is a Palomino. Of course, of course
They remind me. The sight, ice on the heart.
Those lost could do no worse than be recalled
By horses in spring grass, worse
Than own all shaded streets, lilacs,
And sailboats. Who do I think they are,
Saints, with their emblems? I'm affected by
This silvered sky, drastic day mad with
Traffic. Years gone I memorized Donne:
Restore thine Image, so much, by thy grace,
That thou may'st know mee, and I'll turne my face.
Westward, westward, things in motion stay in motion.
I roll down the window, watch for cars swerving
To the wrong lane. So many of us alone. Compact.
Good mileage. We fail and can tell ourselves nothing.
We break apart and invent
Why. We place our faith. Lose track. Blinker flashing,
Keep left. I am totally emptied and must
Fill myself again. The racing of powerful,
Unlovely emotions. What is the endless world?
Comes around again the cusp of summer.
I still like linen. Peach colored linen. I think
Of tanning my legs. I feel the word prayer
In my mind. Just the word. A smooth river stone.
I'm accomplishing the miles to San Francisco
For the thousandth time, add them to my vita.
I'm better off than Mona's mother with her hair
In curl papers thirty years, waiting for the occasion.
I have occasion. Press on. Oh soul of mud.
Half of what sacrifice ransoms us?
Mayes home page
In the summer
The sleeper
I thought about you
The untying of a knot
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