Friday, September 25, 2015

on the road home

On the Road Home

It was when I said,
“There is no such thing as the truth,”
That the grapes seemed fatter.
The fox ran out of his hole.

You … You said,
“There are many truths,
But they are not parts of a truth.”
Then the tree, at night, began to change,

Smoking through green and smoking blue.
We were two figures in a wood.
We said we stood alone.

It was when I said,
“Words are not forms of a single word.
In the sum of the parts, there are only the parts.
The world must be measured by eye”;

It was when you said,
“The idols have seen lots of poverty,
Snakes and gold and lice,
But not the truth”;

It was at that time, that the silence was largest
And longest, the night was roundest,
The fragrance of the autumn warmest,
Closest and strongest.

-- Wallace Stevens

Tuesday, September 22, 2015

Sunday, September 20, 2015

Saturday, September 19, 2015

Thursday, September 17, 2015



It's camping tourists who make them now.
I've grumbled about that urge to own
a mirror in the bush, to erect a mark
so the wild must order itself around the builder.
Time was, to the north, serious stone men
stood sentinel over caribou runs and turned meat
toward the spears --- but these are play,
toddler-tall, a feckless dozen or so gathered
into balance from river rock, on a bank left dry
through summer, though the rise after autumn rain
will drown them. Ice will crack their chests.
But for miles of pine and wind I've heard no voice
to liven the quiet so go down in the evening shade
to touch the stones some other has touched,
to set a tumbled few back upright and nod
a private word of solace to each, water-
smooth and day-warm, welcome to the hand.