Poetry from Lost Roads PublishersFive poems from Ex Voto
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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
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