Friday, June 03, 2005

For Rana


Fall, then, miserably, wretchedly, horribly.
Sink to the very bottom, where the ravens
Tear frogs In a dark well. Because the light
Comes up from the bottom of this well,

Not down from the top. Things happen as you fall,
Unseen things crystallize and shift; centers
Of gravity shear to one side or the other;
Voices call in passing, voices you once knew

And can know again. But only from the bottom.
So I would say, sink fast, sink hard, sink angry,
All the way down, because under your feet
A secret light is opening, and stones are blossoming.


It isn't enough to love. Not even enough
To be honest. One wants to work, to put hands
On crooked things and make them straight,
On sickly things and make them well,

On obscure things and make them plain.
To steal these tasks from loving hands is to steal
Everything. It is not a crime easily
Forgiven, not now, not in one's prime and pride

Of strength. So now we stop. Under this sky,
We must retrace our steps in silence, waiting
Once again, for our inheritance
To be returned. Again. This sky. And silent.


It's little enough that an idle bystander
Can say, at times like this; the awkward hug
Or the glib reassurance. Words richochet, or
Lose themselves. The Radix Malorum

Glints, and has his day, and boasts his card
Trumps all others. But he is lying, though he
Doesn't know it. Far below, the light is rising
Which he will never know, and the stone

Is blossoming, and tasks are rising to the hands
That were made for them. There are truths
I don't know how I know, but I know love,
Which brought all things, is bringing these things too.

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