Monday, November 16, 2009

The field

For Richard D. James

I am to ask the incessantness to heal me
as by simply enduring it has become

You already know me,
Moth-bitten me
And mine:

Waiting on a note from a scale to sound,

Not a melody--

We were born and lived and went caressingly without

But a coarse ripple stirs us,
Convinces us in our haggardback stooping that
The field is not Everything.

No comments: