This collection of torches convulsing in ink:
it is not what I wanted to give you.
All whites look older at night and yet
the tapestry has to include them…
I wanted you to sip this one swatch of light
that stands singly, and
the tan peasant wind that catches and fans
the thin milk of its undergarment, and
how morning blood un-hasps
the hatches behind sleep’s cogs, flooding
and the blasted furnace that risks ecstasis
according to… Is this truly the color of my hands?
I wanted to give you the searing first glance
again, wanted you to grab and fold
into that one swatch of cloth
and stay and raise your hands
and your children’s hands later when
I melt into cadenza and we waft hoarsily past these
pinewood rafters, records of starlings—then
till chance is at last served raw to stirring gods,
till I can’t name the scent of any ripeness
and no longer know what cool water means,
I will needle my eyes into
the position of afterstars. I will make
light trip and sift off sandstone in
the quarries. We have witnessed
too many rutilant past tenses.
Now I shall be the saver of pauses.
We will need breath later.
We erred. Sky should be easier.
I thought this would be different, this looking up.
I thought there would be a granary.