Because you are not here
you are always here
To dust it — not often enough. To stare at it — too often.
To never open it anymore. Keep his ashes hidden.
Yet, while time takes its time to steal the light,
another music stirs, as if memory’s notes
had escaped their staff, & the past came to sing
beside me of its ordinary moments
Do you believe at times that a moment chooses
you to remember it entirely & tell about it —
so that it may live again?
Gone. Another day gone. Its chest-
shredding tragedies or frivolous whims equally
scavenged by dusk. Soon the wind will rest
in the messy trellis of my tree.
Remember? It was late in the afternoon,
we walked a while along these limestone cliffs,
under the silver ghosts of eucalyptus trees.
So I stop my busy nothingnesses & sit a while
at my good table, by the white bowl
edged golden by the sun.
Verlaine threw pail after pail after
cold water pail on the gravel under Rimbaud’s
windows, to cool the air as he slept.
I’m from the ocean’s melancholy, dragging
its anchors back & forth, never quiet, never
still, waves so restless they can’t mirror the moon.
Then, you stop weeping. Lift your face from your hands.
His cat mourned better than I, lying
on her side for weeks across his room’s threshold
Some evenings, he would hide his face in his hands
for a few seconds —
You are invited to attend a reading by some of the most talented poets in the country. The time is 8pmET Tuesday, March 2.