Trace. Eric Pankey
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Название: Trace
Автор: Eric Pankey
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Религия: прочее
isbn: 9781571318732
isbn:
Gradually, the blood drains:
A thousand words never meant for scripture.
Still hunkered on the mountain ridge,
The moon: a saline ghost, a mouth
Opened around a hollow syllable.
When we move toward the sacrifice,
God lifts as a swarm — a body of flies —
As sated as God ever is.
A Bird Loose in the House
The frame — a grid — contrives a theater,
A shadow-play alive on a curtain alive with wind.
Call the bird
The arbitrary inventoried in its variety,
Or perhaps
The embarkation into the ongoingness that follows.
The grid — at once minimal and complex —
Holds curves and intersections,
the plot
And the plotted, point by point,
Its line, its echoic spiraling.
Call the bird
The breath that blossoms and wilts.
Displaced, the bird afflicts the space,
Is the stigma by which the flawless is affirmed.
Call the bird
A sparrow
Call the house
The house we live in, The house of the Lord forever.
The Place of Skulls
One crow, perched on the gallows, oversees the folly.
Still daylight — long shadows of a low sun —
The visible hides the visible.
Somewhere constellations turn like millstones.
After the body’s hauled down, the tree resumes
Its life as a tree: blossoming in season, bearing fruit.
Prayer
When you left it was as if a glacier retreated,
As if the ice tonnage, which rasped, scraped, and scoured for ages,
Diminished in a moon’s single phase to a trickle of meltwater.
I live in its aftermath — till, eskers, erratics, cirques, exposed bedrock.
Moss darkens the far side of a granite boulder. Pines.
Then the valley fills with hardwood forest, which burns and grows again,
Which burns and grows again, which burns and grows again.
Edge of Things
I wait at the twilit edge of things,
A dry spell spilling over into drought,
The slippages of shadow silting in,
The interchange of dusk to duskier,
The half-dark turning half-again as dark.
There: night enough to call it a good night.
I wait for the resurrection, but wake to morning:
Mist lifting off the river.
Ladders in the orchard trees although the picking’s done.
The Calling of the Elect to Heaven
Next to where nettles grow in the vacant lot,
Drawers, left open and empty in a dresser,
Warp, half-filled with rain. The low sky is ashen.
Although workers climbed down years ago, a grid
Of poles and planks still scaffolds the church steeple.
No one pulls the rope slumped over its pulley.
No one can recall the last hour sounded.
My breath, as I lean close, darkens the window.
Only nails on the walls where pictures once hung.
Ritual
Each year, a garland-crowned goat is driven into the wilderness.
Repetition is an aid to memory.
A garland-crowned goat, driven into the wilderness,
Takes with it the burden of its sacrifice.
Each year we drive out the garland-crowned goat.
The goat makes a last meal of its crown.
The Truth of Scripture
Sunlight dapples on a horse’s flank.
A virga
Hangs in the vast western sky like Heaven’s gate.
A virga hangs in the sky like an embrasure.
Little by little the porch empties of light
And one reads until each turned page is a blank.
Night, parenthetical, is not the subject.
One reads until each page is blank,
keeps reading,
As if the truth of scripture will be revealed.
Night — an unstable, volatile amalgam —
Gives way to day and words emerge from the page,
As opaque as ever, riddling, random.
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