JAMES MCCORKLE
Simulacra
And this, what you read is a precession
Of the equinox, the wind hushed in nubbed branches
As light darts the fields
Whose agates are all yours, waiting.
Today you have been walking in the fields,
Ephemerals soon to dazzle
[n brief weeks before the forest closes
Over and what was seen a recollection.
I compose in memory: the deer move closer,
The sunset brilliant as Vesuvian frescoes,
Places worn back to a dull cream
Unstained by pigment-this is how the days end.
I have been reading about signs,
The beginnings of disenchantment.
Unmet passion is the danger: the deer catch my scent
And wait for me, you say, to step from my disguise.
And this, what you read is yours,
Waiting for you to step toward it,
You share in its beginnings, your voice
Overlays mine with a richer more true sound.
Today you have been walking in the fields,
Clouds reel above you, the sky unlocks itself,
A tree has bloomed, overnight you believe,
Curved like bowed deer, the ground tremors.
I walk back to reach this spot where you must be
Still walking toward me, bringing these words,
Telling me you saw flying across the meadow
A din of thrushes chasing a hawk from the wood.
