After Reading Rilke’s “Archaic Torso Of Apollo”
Winter’s last storm moves in and
does not move, buries the year
inside hours.
Lights flicker; somewhere
a hand lifts, turns a doorknob.
In some unshielded room
a chair is sat upon,
a tale is told, is told again.

I have seen, during
the frenzy of seasons,
almost-perceptible figures moving
on the other side of weather.
So towers are reflected
in bedrock,
willows doubled by their roots.

The apocalypse occurs
within your heart — you ache
from a loneliness you can’t discuss
while shadow-faces loom
and thunder overcomes nights
sleepless and full of wondering sleep,
dreams sliding past your eyes,
deciding your days.

You hear a step;
the other is there
— perfectly recognized eyes across
an unused path, hand reaching
to hand, mouth speaking
your soul.

There is no lounder sound
and yet — the voice dissipates
in the turning of roads, the stopping
of winds.
Your other disappears.

You search shores littered
with another heaven’s stars,
oceans whose river beginnings are lost.
You must remember yourself.

This poem first appeared in Downtown.