Have I found a poet new to me, contemporary and yet good in McSWEENEY’S of all places?
Lately, there’s been a glitch in the present tense,
the blackbird calling from the holly tree
and that frost-scent on the wind in late July,
a spindrift from the east that finds me out
as stranger to the soul
I took for granted …
Give me a little less
with every dawn:
colour, a breath of wind,
the perfection of shadows,
till what I find, I find
because it’s there,
gold in the seams of my hands,
and the night light, burning.
Give me these years again and I will
spend them wisely.
Done with the compass; done, now, with the chart.
The ferry at the dock, lit
stern to prow,
the next life like a footfall in my heart.
Or is it just that I am a miserable bastard lately? We can find out kicking off from here, I guess.