In the spirit house, I am alone.
Inescapable, the way out found by looking in
down through the rafters—only shrieking,
no shimmer, sorry, Ashbery. Sorry
Asheville, I can’t stay. Your hidden black
bears, disheveled Black Mountain
are too obvious reminders of all we’ve lost.
Next day I find a single scarlet Carolina leaf
and when I pick it up, it pulls me
from the fabric world. The lesson: all memories
are generic spectres of truth...There are so many
secrets in the spine of Appalachia,
I’ve been trying to tap them out, over-turning
musk-covered peaks to catch a clue, finding
a longing with nothing left to long for
except ennui and burned up roaches. Mixed
tea leaves and heart beat so loud: muddle
into a sedative as soft counterweight. Then I hear
your footprints call my name, but your eyes will
turn to orchids waiting for my signal back—everything
is an imaginary reason to keep holding out for more.
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