1,812 Readings | 12 Ratings

We Are All of Us Nearly Home

In the furious meadow, each
blowing leaf, a tiny calendar.
What time was it, what year.
I have loved her how long.
A green darkness traces patterns
through grass,
reciting the reasons why flowers
appear black in old movies. Over here
I see the sun has found religion.
He is up to his waist
in Floridian rye.
According to the flaking,
splotchy red of my knuckles,
we have everything to fear.
Which is why the horseflies mistake us
for beggars. And why passions multiply
in the country by four-fifths,
which I’ve finally agreed is sufficient.
For the sun here’s an epileptic.
Is someone you love
in the midst of a fit.
I’m asking you to feel deep weight.
Intolerable helplessness.
The earth is spinning the way children might
when a storm overhead
performs its invitational curtsy.
Welcome to the show.
For the stars we’ve issued arrest warrants.
The blackness between them
has been shaped into badges.
The nosy offenders surrender
like snow geese. All birds
are authentic at night. We are
all of us nearly home,
explains the beggar.
Explains the tiny calendar.
Not now.
I’m trying to describe to you the weather.

Posted 05/13/09
Books by Lucas Farrell
Comments (1)
Excellent variation and shifting of topics and images, against which the sardonic terseness of the closed periods drives.
11/19/09 11:08pm