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Found Poem

          for Jacqueline, in memory 

     



i.


     When we visited

Dickinson’s grave our

shadows crossed the stone—

            crossed out “CALLED

BACK.” What else was there

        to say or to see. 





ii.


     This is translation,

this is poetry,

the alchemy in

             a word—in

death—you continue 

         to pronounce yourself.





iii.


      I imagine you

wanted, finally,

to be free from words—

             in the rain

ghost-pale petals drift

        beyond metaphor.





iv.


      The space between lines—

horizon on top

of horizon, where 

             you wait for

meaning to rise from 

        silence—a small sun. 





v.


       Fat bees vault between 

blossoms, loop through light 

the wind can’t contain—

               winter gone

in colors flooding 

          the margin of you. 





vi.


     Nameless, wordless light,

this is what remains

of you: the outline

             of a dream

drawn deeper into

       dawn—into morning. 



  


vii.


        And now you’re nowhere

being everywhere

at once, found and un-

                found, without

language to brace you

          from becoming earth.





Posted 09/10/19
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