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He forgot her lies and two webbed feet.
Worshipped her at a makeshift altar against
the advice of priests who counseled him
in vain, "She's now impossible to reach.
Give up the search." They spread the story
of his futile quest as the myth of the man
who loved a woman with two webbed feet.
How he had returned no less cured of grief
but filled with stories of another world
that is also here where people suffer beyond
belief. That needs a name for the afterlife.
I cannot grieve
I cannot grieve the long redundant end of leaves again.
They are gluttons for eulogy, spectral clowns, autumnal freaks.
A thing must have a face to die, something that will not revive
in a thaw or marry soil, something with style and raging heart,
something with desire and spiritual force, something that grows
from nothing at first and becomes unique, something that can't
return, therefore, to the garden of vanity, something you
remember without the reminder of other things that look the same
and blow in the wind and fall to the ground without a name.
What the river said
I walked beside the Great River
watching it flow in the darkness like a syllable
that needs a grievous heart to be heard.
I stopped to listen and heard it whisper
every name as it slipped in silence past
the fields in which a herd of Holsteins grazed.
I saw it for the divide it was, both here
and not here, impossibly there, there,
with a current that can’t be crossed without
forgetting everything you’ve ever known.
|© Copyright Chard deNiord|