HISTORY IS A BURNING CHARIOT

It is a good-looking evening, stomped and chained.

The clouds sit like majesties in their blue chairs,

                                                             as though doing their nails.

The creek, tripartite and unreserved, sniddles along

Under its bald and blown-down bridges.

It is a grace to be a watcher on such a scene.

So balance me with these words—

Have I said them before, I have,

                                           have I said them the same way, I have,

Will I say them again, who knows

                                                  what darkness snips at our hearts.

I’ve done the full moon, I’ve done the half moon and the quarter moon.

I’ve even done the Patrick Spens moon

As seen by one of his drowned sailors.

Tonight is the full moon again, and I won’t watch it.

These things have a starting place, and they have an ending.

Render the balance, Lord.

                                               Send it back up to the beginning.