Evening Will Come: A Monthly Journal of Poetics (Besmilr Brigham—Issue 49, January 2015)

As Tourists, We Move in Extrovert Reality


the map of reconstructed time, we move

the people stay

the people

cry at our train window, they sell

us fried fish

from roofs of palm frond

they look at us with forgotten


the eyes float past our windows

like fish eyes in water

the dark bodies

flay at the moving train, the camera

catches a face

my face reflects in a face, the past

whirls under our wheels

though there is an exchange


we look on that world, the other (theirs)

with stillness

in introverted dream

the train goes slowly, marking the stations

it moves on slow tracks

numbers, a calendar

of repetition

we reach out, hoping to find a place

where the heart

finds roots


you are lovely as a flower

full of seed

you are beautiful as the rain

your hair

falls in the sunlight

your body is full and straight as the angel

your body carrying seed

the face

i see in your face the evidence

that burns

i see in your body as it moves to me, i feel

the recurrent stillness


oh how can we leave love, the changed form

she has just been with us

she departs

her long hair falling in shadows

over our minds. i found

after, a ribbon (under the couch, i found it

in darkness)

that feel from her hair


a body holds the circle of time

locked in the circle, the time wheel

as the Aztecs made it went round and round

the head in the center

spoke with a tongue of fire

age is

the snake in coil, the brain

(it is time that makes the difference)

and difference—

that is the gate of fire: to love

let us walk out upon the grass, while we are yet

not old. and come with us, child

it will be a long way if we go deep in

the wood;

she made

a cross of her arms when she left us, not

believing in crosses

leaning out of the bus. going to love

to have touched. not knowing when

to have wondered

why there was grief at death of the old

though it is not grief . . .

only in pictures, a disk of images, a face we see

whirling in the water

whirling in the glass

shapes of terror, as we stand one age with the other

our bodies (the same age)

each shut with the gate of enclosure

caught in the circle of changing circumference

in pain we open our leaves