Thursday, September 08, 2005


This one appeared in Staple, issued at the time from Matlock Bath.  Salve, Meashams.

From these bones you could build a bird.
From one blunt end a whispered word
emerges as music.  On their last
legs, these brittle sticks, they’re past
a long walk.  Down a short peer narrow
end-wise, which houseled a marrow
could bear a weight, you’d see the moon.
A cakewalk, a fox-trot: a tune
keeps time where we all come.  Belief
did not hollow this, nor did grief
warp out of whack the graceful line:
not sin, though tried, and it felt fine.
It was not fault, nor fear; not real
presence, the stars, nor that schlemiel
who broke her trellis, thorned by the climb.
It was a leg; it’s not.  It’s time.


Nev said...

an old fave. we are out there, you know, a few devoted readers.

RHE said...

Thanks. I suspect most online poets-- messageboarders & bloggers-- nurture this sort of fantasy: they may seem unknown and unread, but they have scads of devoted readers, silent, but hanging on every word and waiting for the next, like the Queen Mum and Dick Francis. You're only encouraging my delusion.