Charles Wright Poems

East of me, west of me, full summer.
How deeper than elsewhere the dusk is in your own yard.
Birds fly back and forth across the lawn
looking for home
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I seem to have come to the end of something, but don’t know what,
Full moon blood orange just over the top of the redbud tree.
Maundy Thursday tomorrow,
then Good Friday, then Easter in full drag,
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The structure of landscape is infinitesimal,
Like the structure of music,
seamless, invisible.
Even the rain has larger sutures.
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The heart is colder then the eye is.
The watchers, the holy ones,
know this, no shortcut to the sky,
A single dog hair can split the wind.
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My traveling clothes light up the noon.
I've been on my way for a long time
back to the past,
That irreconcilable city.
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This is the bird hour, peony blossoms falling bigger than wren hearts
On the cutting border's railroad ties,
Sparrows and other feathery things
Homing from one hedge to the next,
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Thanksgiving, dark of the moon.
Nothing down here in the underworld but vague shapes and black holes,
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Sunday, September Sunday ... Outdoors,
Like an early page from The Appalachian Book of the Dead,
Sunlight lavishes brilliance on every surface,
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The generator hums like a distant ding an sich.
It's early evening, and time, like the dog it is,
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Darkened by time, the masters, like our memories, mix
And mismatch,
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