Charles Wright Poems
|1.||Littlefoot, 19, (This Is The Bird Hour)||5/21/2015|
|2.||A Short History of the Shadow||6/3/2016|
|3.||The Appalachian Book of the Dead||6/3/2016|
|8.||Dio Ed Io||6/3/2016|
|10.||Nine-Panel Yaak River Screen||6/3/2016|
|12.||Sitting Outside at the End of Autumn||6/3/2016|
|13.||Spider Crystal Ascension||6/3/2016|
|14.||Stone Canyon Nocturne||6/3/2016|
|16.||Words and the Diminution of All Things||6/3/2016|
|17.||After Reading Tu Fu, I Go Outside To The Dwarf Orchard||1/20/2003|
|18.||Body And Soul Ii||1/20/2003|
|19.||Still Life On A Matchbox Lid||3/15/2005|
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,
Dogwood blossoms like little crosses
All down the street,
lilies and jonquils bowing their mitred heads.
Perhaps it’s a sentimentality about such fey things,
But I don’t think so. One knows
There is no end to the other world,
no matter where it is.
In the event, a reliquary evening for sure,
The bones in their tiny boxes, rosettes under glass.
Darkened by time, the masters, like our memories, mix
and settle about our lawn furniture, like air
Without a meaning, like air in its clear nothingness.
What can we say to either of them?
How can they be so dark and so clear at the same time?
They ruffle our hair,
they ruffle the leaves of the August trees.
Then stop, abruptly as wind.