Translations from the Flesh

Evenings Homesick for the Absolute

4 evenings homesick for the absolute The day turns in its half circle, east to west, Wheel that grinds the hours Down to shadow and after, spindly twins of the dead. From noon on, I could hear the wind thinking out loud, Panic of vernacular Through the long wires and hard sky. I could lip-read the leaves, in their curl and twist: Wait. It’s not over. A last inch of revelation Will still unroll. Orphan of the lost beliefs, I want to Feel those words warm me, the way the sun Mothers up the new blooms. I want a second chance at the absolute, Wherever it is, whatever it is, The late years creaking through me like a pack mule. Inside, candles sniff the air for a dark scent; Amber of brandy holds its own glow. All over town, the lamps Go on, go out, like random firings in the brain, And stars set off their neons of permission, Hot blink at the end of the odd: Vacancy. Room to let. And room enough for me, too, if sleep, Like St. Christopher, would Carry me on its back to the other shore. But who lives on moon soup or bread Handed down from thin women? Refugees from the real; Pilgrims paring themselves to pure bone. 5 I mop my plate with coarse crusts And lick the spoon. I know too much of exile To disappear into myself— Even in this raw dark, slow and cold, I leave my windows open for The vast eccentric innocence of light. ...