2017 READING CHALLENGE
This year is coming to a close, which means it’s time to […]
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There is no life higher than the grasstops Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind Pours by like destiny, bending Everything in one direction. I can feel it trying To funnel my heat away. If I pay the roots of the heather Too close attention, they will invite me To whiten my bones among them.
The sheep know where they are, Browsing in their dirty wool-clouds, Grey as the weather. The black slots of their pupils take me in. It is like being mailed into space, A thin, silly message. They stand about in grandmotherly disguise, All wig curls and yellow teeth And hard, marbly baas.
I come to wheel ruts, and water Limpid as the solitudes That flee through my fingers. Hollow doorsteps go from grass to grass; Lintel and sill have unhinged themselves. Of people the air only Remembers a few odd syllables. It rehearses them moaningly: Black stone, black stone.
The sky leans on me, me, the one upright Among all horizontals. The grass is beating its bead distractedly. It is too delicate For a life in such company; Darkness terrifies it. Now, in valleys narrow And black as purses, the house lights Gleam like smallchange.
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