| “the way memory and summer reveal their terrible affinities while speaking separate dialects” —Michael Davidson, “Summer Letters” |
1.
shored up inside still
they speak liturgies over
this valley’s grid
and does summer remain
in a sort of air
or a morning
it is a fact
limited views on days like these
pursuing burnt earth
and when he returned
a lampglow
fluttered papers
the house leaned and he
did not imagine summer
hills fading into white lines
2.
returning we burned ourselves
and in our books burned
star fine ash sketches
paper imprints
his breath the collage of speech
his breaks culled never
his hands left marks all over this town
perception returns
on returning forgets
endures fathoms years
fashions speech’s garb
skin masks pale stars
3.
its name begins at the lake
regrets the insides of clouds
and gulls so far inland
windows open only partway
color has already been written
and what won’t resolve
reminders in asphalt
loom
shouldered into simply describing
twenty years ago
twenty minutes from now
which is entangled
early morning
word spreads
4.
unhitched
dust settles
water assumes the shape of rocks
the haze and a hand on a page
a heron stands in the creek
by night they wait for another
mapping a route from home
scant furtive fires
nothing but in care of you
his arms in this sad knot
scans hems trees
hinge upon a past upon
an unseen gift a cloud
suspended behind a chimney
and to speak a lantern apart
they followed traces
in the attraction of habit
5.
everything has slowed
climbed steps to the door
and hid behind it
is it possible to turn
another disappears all
of the sky is a ruse is a
letter is a day grown over
seeks emphasis in calendars
many hours spoke
vows ignite the memory
prove intention how it
presumes
the recurring sun and patch
of hills the voice from corners
thorns successive designs
weather became important
creased lines bleed
dispatches
to think of drift
blackly treed vein
crevices
dialogues drown
a nest
unutterable
6.
to hedge’s green layers
we turned a twig
roots of my wool-gathering
speaks to the beginning
or two years back
the pulse in winds
dwells atop silent house
Oneonta countrymen
roots of the beginning
of dusty lines awakened
the leaves’ silver ends
remembered through memory
how often the grass bent
and boards cracked
and when he returned
returning forgot
paled into another
7.
shapes impressed upon pillows by mourning lost
words a waking promise spreads and now all
ceremonies have ended curled his wings grew from a
knee from cock wilson the historic ward numbers
cadences concealed absence he begged a copse hid
such messages an idea of age gathers any missing
story so well hewed we hunted water and leaves and
stones three creeks silty walked another riverbank
once our vocabularies now halved
8.
a warning of moon in daylight on summer’s quiet
paths yet waning to cold air she revealed hitherto
abandoned structures clove pendant spoken with
burnt tongue under fog calls each departed letter
and the letters spelled a name in these hills and
words passed between two houses a mile apart a
mark crosses and begins in each letter another
writes
9.
water parts two roads to words white circle
candles burned under hills the length of this country
driven from the letter of the intent to what’s left of a
pattern pressed between leaves
lost light to away maybe we forgot he said push mist
the road blink left rose a summer ending in rain
Dutch river settlements
terrel unfold ways begin dark a seacoast faints on
falling this press acre of ground we moved through
return paths feet cut down
10.
into sight abandons senses voice sway. the hill once
painted fades and eyelashes occur as dusk. fields
grown over unseen a hollow fills. the lake dirt
in afterthought begins a sentence
envelopes drifted tables
and letters accumulate unsent. two voices
events events the mornings begin
damp grass fenced skin peeling
I unburying all year