Sunday, December 10, 2017

Always Dying

While precocious winter dusk subsumes them
the cluster squares awake, coin where the cold's
kept out of rooms: high-rises pock with light
the north shore mountains' feet, inlet's
other strand; power-grid optics spangle
farther up - then peter - as residential homes.

The steady automotive chain that spans
the inlet's bridge, likewise lights. No slack
in the pelting sleet on us: day of cold clay,
wet legs and hands, white breath, tightening back,
foresting the height that was wrecked by storm;
ubiquitous slurry inhales boots.

Salal cliffs are vantage to spumes
the silent freights, remotely on slate,
drag as through a dream - slow, far down.
Why the sight of salt water far down,
and why the sight of lights would make the heart
to sink, in dread, to death; and why
at this place, ice cream point, prospect named,

poses question to another dusk I knew,
where once, at a forest edge, two I knew
crossed the cold meadow. Hearing first their voices,
brother sister pair they, called in recognition
to their friend, watching the gold go down
through the woods regained on the other end.

Wood wandered we and before we knew, the fastest
falling dark; three mergers we, each one's face
to the other, gradually getting covered
with world's shades, made us more intimate; the grey
chill settled, and something was, that warmed,
keeping us to feel no need for emergence.

We had never one of us seen such dusk
as that one held us in the darkening paths
with deck plied on deck on clean laid blood
fed through the outliers and closer than them,
as one would reach from aisle pew to touch the red
of a cathedral’s glass burning next you.

In a blacksmith black, this hammered burning,
light's bough-building blood; floating rose thrown
on the fir pillars, in the furthest quiet.
Light dying, light dying, openly dying;
no light coming on - and we did not leave
for joy. An owl was like a lori bird,

from way back in the wood’s heart
from way back in the wood’s heart,
in the fast-falling shadows and cold
that silenced us so to hear it: oo-ta-oo,
and we spied him, mostly silhouette
on a tree's lower rung. And then he flew

like winging smoke, not denying us a similar pleasure
of the wood's depths he knew and flew:
do you know how large the heart of Jesu?
Following the owl like smoke we were
following the owl like smoke, mostly smoke
to the world's material hazards.

Much made of a light, which does not illumine,
for it is not anticipation's light: a light
that denies the dark down to each fast-lit
corner, but does not overcome it;
keeps no warring at the ever ends
where halo rays naked meet the gloom;
nor drum against it like blood's rushing.

Answered us a dying light, that is eternal,
that we're dumb to while we try and scatter
dark away; always dying light that's giving light.
Body, blood and light. Body, blood. Then light.
A dying light signs a coming in light,
on trees against the dark that couches them,
that is the blood which wraps our wintered bole.

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