 |
| (from the public domain) |
I took shelter in my bones.
Days passed. The sound of rain.
Whether she has gone or if she was ever here.
Who among us is the enemy of water?
Reality is mutable and strange.
A hawk cries overhead. Trees stir.
It isn't up to us.
 |
| A.I. |
Take care.
There is no
Land in sight.
— Charles Simic (1938-2023)
New York, Knopf, 2022
Copyright, 2022, Charles Simic
 |
| Summer in its second movement. jo'b |
in my hip pocket,
strings and flutes,
maybe an oboe,
sustained notes,
interstellar melodies,
universal hums,
it keeps me calm
so I can focus
on the temporary joys,
(and aren't they all)
blackbirds rising from the wire
in modest murmuration,
a weave of swallows,
the toad in porchlight
at the kitchen door,
maple leaves turning over,
thunderheads building
and the wind rising—
summer in its second movement,
me in my fourth, softly.
 |
| jo'b |
 |
| jo'b |
Warm and cool
the veins of air we passed through
down from the hill
where we had seen the last ridge
rise to cover the sun
as we rolled back
into the shadow of the earth.
There was nothing else to say.
It felt like forever,
heading home,
long ago.
 |
| jo'b |
 |
| jo'b |
Thank you for welcoming me,
Phantoms of the periphery,
Faint souls there to the side
Who vanish when I turn to look,
You shy ghosts of caring,
But not yet, not yet.
