as I never could before
The beauty left his face
and
his
eyes began to cloud
with the
grief
that killed him
I ran on the grass
made paths through the woods
felt the rain in my fur
Remembering the golden cities no longer moves me
I begin to forget
I flew once and knew the key
to patterns
I no longer have the mind for
ONE
There exists on the river-banks,
And where rivers divide for the sea,
Much as debris collects on sand,
Assemblies of soft creatures, who, unbent,
Distort themselves skyward,
Whose feet puncture the clay.
With their caravans, more abrupt
And ghostly than the tide's changing,
Dust plugs up their foot-prints,
Wind sweeps without effort
Into hollows they filled, for the earth
Has no reason to know them.
Yet slight monuments cling to them
Unasked: where they sleep
Is not rain kept separate
By stone, ore whittled down,
Richard Tillinghast
