Because all afternoon we watch vultures
and Michael says if he had health
he’d like to hunt, not for the kill
but the long stalk, the hunched wait
in the weeds and because the arm, limp
in his lap as a fish in a sleeve,
still scoops up warmth and touch and pain.
Because for me whole years remain
only as scatters of walkway stone,
linoleum step-dimmed by the stove, the sink,
the back way out with its screen door unhinged
and if you asked, I would have sworn, yes,
I love her. Not the clawing but the pinioned
shadow crossing the dry gold hills.
Not Christ nailed but brought down,
the tenderness of two summoned women,
each taking a blood-cold foot, road grit
passing from heel to hand, the immense quiet
and weight of quiet, even the guard
careful to keep cloth over the side-slung
genitals. All without acrimony or remorse
yet warped with hope as starlight
because even starlight comes choked
with aberration, the blue throttle
of receding, the red hurtling
forth. Because our very looking creates,
inseparable from the looked-at, atom
of atom: quark, scent, hue, the minute
engine within each engine, each bowl of fire.
Because we know we will never know, not
from fingering the wounds, not from calculation,
ephemerides or lens. Not the clawing
but the shadow. No crown or flower, only
sepal, thorn, the withering bulk and nodding,
our momentary gentle attendance as someone calls,
come look at the moon, come watch the waves.