Theory of Margins
—for
Keith and Rosmarie Waldrop
Given the prices
these days, late
empire in a stew,
where is the island
of Mr. Callisto,
the accident report,
and nautical reason?
Nowhere to be
found. But we
are always finding
an echo in the cloth
or two lines at
convergence making
the most of
absence. We drag
expensive ghosts
through memory's
unmade bed
wrinkled like skin.
The past has its
seasons and disjunct
facts ceremonial in
their cadence. In
chaos of perception,
one final needle
awakens in flesh;
a line of ants
follows the peony's
curve for sugar
and the view;
and pallid flowers
with solid stamens
stand within a
field where all
painted things are
quietly impressive
because they simply
are. The logic
of circumference
is being what's
contained—isolated lakes,
zero letting go.
Yet the kitchen
speaks of meadows,
one loon creaks and
herons fly sweetly
only with the
stream. Spring will
arrive with instincts
and string, a
thin moon and
new settings. You
lean with your
eyes toward the
numb sun, where
a stitch of
oleander takes platonic
shape along the
veranda as something
near percussion
and yet not
wet. Threshold and
entrance of a
music near breaking
or maybe
grass leans because
the light is
fading. In neon
panoramas and
heartbeat chapters,
the manifest act
is performed near
a bed. There
will be music
and other root
systems and all-
consuming angels
with their mouths
on fire, extravagance
and plainness
in equal measure
and delight in
the receiving. Breathing
on the stairs.
