What you knew
you knew
only so well,
the cuttings and shutterings,
five miles alone
with the earth's passing.
Each of these
is vacancy,
vacancy stillness
beginning again
like a quiet man pacing
our ceiling, his floor.
It's only metaphor,
and yet
how we understand the
raw world.
Say world, not wound,
not the weeping kind
you brought home
in your hotel heart,
not the blindness
your nurtured.
Six long years in the orchard
learning the music of a dull blade.
Your wrist grew
thick in it, like a dancer
shouldering a legless dancer.
These impossible views
take us back to our possible childhoods.
What aching we knew then, named joy,
what solitudes
we did not have words for.
Sometimes, quieter,
we could hear our bones
adding their inches
like children counting
on their fingers
the spoils
of a candy robbery.
This is only an abstract poem
we would have shouted
if we only knew
such a term could
remove all limit
and leave the thing dripping,
shining in sunlight.
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