Help Me To Salt, Help Me To Sorrow
In the moon-fade and the sun’s puppy breath,
in the crow’s plummeting cry,
in my broken foot and arthritic joints,
memory calls me
to the earth’s opening, the graves dug, again, and again
I, always I am left
to turn away
into a bat’s wing-brush of air.
That never changes . . .
not this morning, not here
where I’ve just found
in the back of my truck, under the rubber mat,
in a teacup’s worth of dirt,
where it seems no seed could possibly be
a corn kernel split to pale leaves and string-roots.
It’s a strange leap but I make it