by Barbara Guest
Patches of it
on the lettuce a geography
on trucks brilliant noise
on the figure a disrobing
radiance sweaters dumped
on water,
weightlifting there in the forest clump
striking at the underbrush, digging
past the clumsy curve
skipping certain passages, taking off
the sweater.
That fir cone found its voice on the path
in light after the sun came out
the postcard illuminates certain features in the face
the notebook lying on the windowsill,
the spindle back, the broken stem, all richer,
niceties tend to drop, also words like “many
loves” come forward the surprise of white stars
and the boots step by amazingly on the dried rich clay.
He swings his racket after it the luminous
the ball nearly swerves into it
those ancient people learning to count
surrounded by it, every day,
and navigators noting it there on the waves
the animus containing bits there on its subject
perched like sails,
bright rewards for preparing to strut forth
like the diver there on the board forced
by his greed into it.
Many loves changes to many times falling into
the day’s lucid marshes
a tap on the shoulder or a first grasping that
object full of sparks
the wilderness untangled by it.
The fierceness with which it forged its memory,
its daylight, its absence.
Yes to the point of damages,
yes to the stunning infrequency,
yes to encourage with repetition its repetion,
yes to sober knowledge of its parsimony.
A few fir cones, sails, the stain removed,
blazes from the paper without lifting your hands.
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