||[Apr. 24th, 2011|11:58 pm]
Clouds crowd the sun these days, like autograph hunters mobbing a celebrity. The sun sends its light to the nearest, which beams it back, but sometimes the light gets lost in the crowd. It was like that all afternoon, every time I looked, and tonight it will be the moon's turn to be mobbed. Maybe it will be like that all April. I'm so distracted, though. I keep forgetting to look at the sky. I keep looking at all those foxtails I'm going to have to pull. Why stuff sticking out of the ground should draw my attention from so marvelous a day I don't know. The plants must be conspiring against me. Maybe the pollen-induced sneezing has loosened my brain. Whatever the cause, I'm barely here. I might as well have another beer. I couldn't be more hazy.|
by Louise Glück
Night covers the pond with its wing.
Under the ringed moon I can make out
your face swimming among minnows and the small
echoing stars. In the night air
the surface of the pond is metal.
Within, your eyes are open. They contain
a memory I recognize, as though
we had been children together. Our ponies
grazed on the hill, they were gray
with white markings. Now they graze
with the dead who wait
like children under their granite breastplates,
lucid and helpless:
The hills are far away. They rise up
blacker than childhood.
What do you think of, lying so quietly
by the water? When you look that way I want
to touch you, but do not, seeing
as in another life we were of the same blood.