Till then I see what’s really always there.” - Philip Larkin
Along the woodpile you see a trail of demise,
a few feathers, snuff-colored and thin.
Then, aside your brown boot, the source--
a swallow down, the puffed pulp of its breast
heaving final rhythms. Standing there, you
wait. For what? Sun begins its December descent,
spills gauzed yellow on the broken leaves below.
In time, the swallow stops, and you go.
Returning to your tiny room, you read the messages always there:
fissures walls conceal the dusted spiral
of a lost snake; the handle of a white teacup just below
the stove—things gone missing and forgotten carry on in their
diminished states. You weigh them, knowing now
that in the morning you will return to the woodpile
where you will watch again for the slow finishing,
for the trace that's left behind:
the leaves below, the signified,
the folded swallow, the sign.
for the trace that's left behind:
the leaves below, the signified,
the folded swallow, the sign.
3 comments:
nice revision... i like how you've reworked the ending... seems like you took up some of gerry's suggestions... well done with this... the editing process is often as much a part of the creativity as the original thought... thanks for sharing some of your thought here with us
Thanks, Jon. This still needs a ton of work as do all of the poems on my blog. I so appreciate the feedback.
It's interesting seeing you post the changes; adds a dimension to the work not normally found until archivists have picked over things long after. I think it's a good idea (but I'm chicken, I can barely post the finished things).
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