Articles/Essays – Volume 56, No. 3
Noted in the Dark
Some nights here there’ve been singings
the children out into twilight . . . their countings,
their hidings, their
ally ally oxen frees.
And sometimes the crickets were not sounding bereft
but offered impressions you needed to hear.
Now in the stillness you feel the heart as a bell
after all the years, sounding through liquid
in the wrist and the ear
though many the sundowns
when veins turn to faint smoldering . . .
the constant shortening of time?
the way fluid horizons can burn
without flame as day slips out.
The night sky seems a sieve:
wavelengths and light years . . . the absences
we reach for, like too muted music we need to take in
hoping the finally discernible notes,
accidentals, clusters, and cues
will become one harmony, the sigh
soothing losses into the word rest
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