I was a bridge between the two worlds, but
With one dismaying problem, the realization
That the two worlds were one and the other
Worlds that might or might not be were
Utterly out of reach of my maker's light kites
And word strings and knitted cable ladders.
If, like John Mack, I'd been a bridge content,
I might have thought I led to something new.
Walk across me, and you'll see, the world
Beyond physical, wonders, mind the blanks.
But I was a boondoggle, a bridge to nowhere
That had always been aimed squarely there.
It was so quiet by the unabridged stream
That body could and did hear minor rockfalls
As well as the wings of a small bird, no
Bigger than body's two thumbs put together,
The first movement not water, rock, or fly
In an hour. Then it was gone. Another fly.
Then it was gone. Even in the night, nothing
Had come to the stream to drink, the only
Old tracks in the mud a few raven prints
And perhaps a fox or two, already vanishing.
What had come down to this impasse not us,
Yet, pots, shards, and dessicated cobs
In the canyons on either side suggested
Whole generations, villages had lived wholly
Or largely here, once, where recently only
The occasional jeep or ATV growled
A few minutes, ripping up the mud flats,
And then disappeared in search of other
Quiets to murder, other adventures.
Not even one of those so far today. The sky
With its etch-a-sketch contrails suggested
That air was easier to get across than here.
Here was never easy to get across, and yet
We all kept crossing it, I kept crossing it,
Knowing in time here must cross over me.
No comments:
Post a Comment