Snow falling, dense as some poems, denser,
like yesterday, dove-colored,
snow falling, as though you still were sleeping,
the whole world piled into whiteness.
And beyond the world, endless—
the sleigh print of the desolate.
There, deep down, sheltered under that mountain:
what so harrows the eye—mound
after mound—burgeons upward invisibly.
From each, hammered home into its
own present, a pole, wooden,
an I that sinks away into muteness.
There, shuddered by ice and wind, it moors
itself to the dove-, to the snow-colored
fabric of what it feels, its only flag.
Masada’s swamp soldier
hauling himself home
against the wire’s every thorn.
the eyeless, the shapeless
rousing you to freedom
with their furious digging
until you strengthen
Imagine it: your
has held a scrap
more habitable, that
suffered upward again
this was borne over to me—
a name awake, a hand awake
from the ones who will never be buried.
These countless constellations
bestowed to us, to everyone….
I was, when I beheld you—
how long ago?—out in the open
among the protean Otherworlds.
O these passages, galactic,
O this hour whose tipped scale
gravitates to the burden of our names.
It is, I know it, not true that we lived,
a breath wavering blindly between
being there and not there, now and then
our eyes alighting to one frequency,
a comet humming toward extinguished things
in gorges where they would die away
and time stood, voluptuous,
on which all that is or was or will be
had already burgeoned
upwards and downwards and away.
I know, I know and you know, we knew
did we not, we were there, yes,
and sometimes when Nothing
stood between us we found
our way entirely to one another.
All poems © Copyright Daniel Tobin 2018