ii.
I haven’t written to him
I haven written to him. Why should I write to him?
No one will write to him
why don’t you write to him
To do a thing for a man
who does nothing
for you is to be a fool,
to do something once for someone lost in the grief
is grace.
After he hollow O is the
third morning of Allantide.
When we had forgotten
your sacred name and were passing out too
much candy for their
little bodies to hold, it was cold and sleet and
dark grey.
Yesterday was a sunlight
interruption, an eruption of all the silent
saints and now today we
huddle in
the your dark womb making
altars to those who were before
put up heaps of peaches
and pairs turnips up and down the stairs,
carved with faces and
teeth. And I am the lantern of he dead.
And you are the sacred
head, and I am not looking for the way
back home,
for the way is here.
You went to England looking for the old country and climbed
down Cornwall
looking for the world’s
end, picked down shingles to Tintagel to see where
Arthur was born only to
remember that your home is further
west than west, and the
mound you worship on in Indiana
when Stonehenge
was formed.
You thought ancient was
only ancient to white men.
Here on the twisting Shagwa,
the serpents in the rivers and the mothers
of the serpents of the
water will teach you
I haven’t written to him
I haven written to him. Why should I write to him?
No one will write to him
why don’t you write to him?
He is still on the island
prison, surrounded by grey waves.
Occasionally he can
almost see the shore and long to build
A seahut
But, no more…
To do a thing for a man
who does nothing
for you is to be a fool,
to do something once for someone lost in the grief
is grace.
An act of mercy takes a
minute, it travels with the speed of sound, it take
longer to conceive than do,
longer to dismiss than to take and change
a corner of the world.
Shake out all the
corners, the clean beasts come running while the other
are hidden in space
unclean was the lapwing,
I was the hound that hid
all sacred things.
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