Ann Lauterbach
SECOND DESCENT: 1980
Wooden crate pulled deftly apart;
thin paper set loose.
This while the tome is balanced
between your wife and not your wife, while
the requiem doles out illusions of return.
Sanctus. Curious. Delirium. Double stars
in the far pink sky; star, star, star.
"I haven't yearned since April."
Surcease, purview. Nothing so for miles
and now nigh t. Los t sigh t of
noon's hollow girth, clam shells fitted,
all on the edge. Days when light
is hooped, a low band
on which some of us stand ready and waiting
to slip past the look just before the end.
"Only for a certain amount of time are we wanted."
Then , well then
we have it in mind to climb something steep
and to wear a hat. We have it in mind
to cross paths with those no longer recognized:
distant cousin, daughter of a long dead friend.
She writes impressions of bird songs for single cello.
All is forgotten. "After the war, we ... "
All is forgotten. Ash end, unaware of deliverance.
