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...and then
came Darius marching with cymbals,
drums and horns. He sweeps away the armies
of the world. They write on clay his victory—
something like the clay from which a man is made.
Now, down from the clouds a purple comb
of rain draws its teeth across the grassland.
The light of Sunday blows away.
On the prairie you see the rain coming for miles.
The carpet of bachelor buttons and dandelions
my heart goes out to waits for a trample of hail.
Buffalo have long ago forgotten this grass,
while bluebird and sparrow pass above it, too.
Still, we give a name to the land, then section it,
so it becomes a place within our thoughts.
Upon this grid the body and soul solidify.
Somehow, a spark that would be my father
had a destiny at this communion of earth and sky.
A child reaches for her father's hand.
Some say he turns, others say he blooms.
Her fingers close around the dusty wind.
Please take this veil of shadow from her eyes.
She is too young to see we are just blood,
bones and bad dreams—the very day she wears
her virgin dress remains the day her father dies.
We write on clay, we write on scrolls, we write
because the world and all it holds must slip away.
This baby's breath is pulled from fire.
These lips are wafers made from salt.
This is why a lover has the rusty taste of wounds,
and why his kisses brush our cheeks like wire.
The earth is silent now with all that passes.
It gathers in the fallen with a mute embrace.
Time and traffic wears translucent rivers in the air.
The jealous earth keeps its lovers to itself.
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