Friday, September 23
PRE-LOVED BODIES
Strange how much we find later.
Inside a dying river,
Good visibility.
The loss of silence we fear. And this:
Relics from June: I count in this pastoral the carcass of an orange,
An antropolise with its miniature chateaux
& water lilies overgrown;
Frail forts sprouting in the wild around us.
Even now I think of you as gentle
with some other lover —
How much walks out of a person through doors?
How much leaves
Through windows, the swell of incandescence
*
Or smoke, inverse river moving with the tenderness
Of people pedaling farm bicycles late evening
Piled high with woods for home fires.
This procession, instead of gospel
Slow as I want it to be.
The air smells like a thing in search of home
I suppose you could think of it this way
Pre-loved bodies touched by rain breeze.
And to sit in sunlight tender at this angle
Passing through a tree — a way to make myself penetrable
By things falling from the sky flapping against gravity. (Kechi Nomu)