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

The Wakening

and we

we came to a different earth.

built a camp fire . . .

dreaming of hills of yellow flowers

(the crosses on a rock wall

stood withering in heat) a saint’s closed

way, that separated us

a fire brand thrown up in darkness

that lighted the trees and burned

hard against the still road, the terror

that with each mile

threw itself back upon us, inward

from summers of sleep to pass, through

winters of cold

to another kind of sleep and dream

(held in ice)

waiting. . .waiting

for a hand to reach in warmth (each sealed

in his own hard covering)

 and love

was with us. no outside touch

 from the lips inward

birds that cried over the fields

looked down in their passing

shapes irregular as grain, held

disappearing in shadow