>like blossoms falling

on that bedroom wall, a barn
in August; a Vermeer;
a café; and suitcases
painted by someone we know
and beyond that wall
the great wheel turns like a millstone

when the sky is blue
it is the gleaming face of destruction
and down among the roots
in the tangles of soil an ancient vine
threatens our hedges
tangling our hopes with darkness
calling to us from the tomb of this world

some set up stones
some spilled blood
some sacrificed flesh
and when night descended
the sun fought its way through hell

this is the ancient of days
the ever coming of the storm
the swelling of the tender buds

in the beginning
we did not think of cities;
seeking arcadia along the rivers
and in the fertile valleys
collecting goats
corroborating stars
wearing anxieties like dead skins

and when our sons grew up
and killed each other
the heavens still beckoned
but our monuments never reached that far
not really
and all of it’s more like a parking lot
than an orchard
but still I see the leaves kicked up

I am a trunk
hewn and mobile
bone and blood
a serpent and a spirit
I am viscera
I am pouring forth
I am crawling through
and you
the world
a treachery
a beautiful death
an angel and a sword
a streaming light
can only cast your voice
in the stillness of my desires
like blossoms falling
in the shadows


Et in Arcadia Ego, painting by Guercino, ca. 1628

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