INDEX
Sunset dreams the town
from simple flesh to being:
murmur of voices
from porch-shadows;
breathstirring
twilightleaves, pine-
needlescent;
and the silent greyfield
justoutside the limits, in
churchshadow, there, too,
is the interminable hum.
It is a sense
that can only be
through conflation:
by portmanteau into apprehension.
And I hear as if
distantly in passing beyond
the arc of kitchenglow
(alone on the street)
just outofrange:
fathervoice calling
an evenwish;
cattle-in-the-barns;
insect and nightbird;
lovers quarrelsoft.
* little town *
Slow progress of lamps
winking out from center climbing steepstreet dark
toward townedge.
Sleepy horses.
Child cries for one-more-game
before the coverturning,
the G-dblessing.
Damp taste of metal on nightbreeze:
"storm comin' up"
* lumpthroat *
And it is not with us now as it was then
(twinbreathing)
of softwind and lullulation
Something broke the dam
and the lachrymal flood
poured forth:
the confusion of innocence blamed
for this condition
strikes glowworm avenues beneath
chestnut and darkelm passing:
blight invasion;
goldenhome made dim;
clapboards cracking;
dust has overtaken
One by one
Until all that is left are these:
Whispergrate of steps on gravelpath;
strayboard and brokenpane;
darkness at roadsnarrow;
and hills beyond
where phantoms of invisible
and forgotten adventures cry
for one-last-ocean, one
last morningdance.
But town's shut down tight by ghostmachine:
Doctor chokes on aneurism;
Tinker succumbs to rust;
Lamplighter drops the tallow;
Vine withers cattle
going dry mother
and night is still.
There is no one word for some things.
No one
word
Cutsky razorslash and forklight
shake the fundament as greyfield
opens (skull) opens (mouth)
* shadowover *
* eyestartle *
( cast from dream )
* the only way to break *
out of that blast
e m e r g i n g
(There is no one word)
Last lamp left shining
on the black height terminal trees final
f i r e f l y
Originally published in GW Review, 1999.
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© 2010 W. Luther Jett. All rights reserved.