zenith in their own descent. Winter is a large
man in a suit reading but I see your footprints
and your point although [ understand so little
of what I see: the ritual of vision turned
into a vacant lot. Must I always think
about what to think? There are so many
versions of the same molten story each
inclined a little too indifferently to
help which is why you refuse the hook
to be followed by an instant of frozen
glory. At least you may observe and remember
so although unrecorded this remorse will not
be yours only. The monument worriedly burns
as it fills the veil of each new attraction:
civility as a form of telegram cut from
the trees, the chairs lined up in rows
of emotion now close enough to see.
TIMOTHY RICHARDSON
In
the Tracks of a Stag
Though frost sets fires, disrobes these groves, entombs
the path as dreams, unmade,
swept in blustering spumes,
streak and fade,
you prance as on glass this rash of earth
with dehiscing sensitivities,
figure the prime of consciousness:
a trust unbroken in the ends of birth.
Dawn stabs you as you pass among trees.
Lodged in the chain of rhythm's press
(branches flashing antlers),
I slide toward all dust blurs.
