no na po wri mo for me
Willow in Spring Wind: A Showing
Pointless homesickness. Pointless shudderings.
Wind now clockwise: surrendering this way.
Wind now counter: surrendering that.
Wide tree with its good throat up from the dark
flinging forth embroiderings of inaudibles,
limbs jerked like a cough -- then like a credo, flung --
then broken oars; then oars not broken at all but thrumming in
the open sea of my
Clasp me, trellis of glancings,
body of the absconding god--
replacing something (I know not what)--
undulating, muttering liqudly...
Is it my glance or is it the willow kneeling wildly now
as if looking for corpses,
dragging its alphabet of buds all along the gravelly walk--
scraping -- ripping -- along the seemingly insatiable
hardness of gravel? Also the limestone wall they slap...
Where is the sharp edge that we seek? Where
the open mouth? --
the true roughness -- halo distended --
glittering with exaggeration --
dazzling the still philosophies --
by Jorie Graham