Something in the back of the mind, the old shed, shack, corner burlap sack of potatoes we poor men ate this. Not now. Something else. Now is paper. Scissors. A whole orchestra trying to remember. Who were we when we were? Sometimes sun stuns. He falls off his horse all the way into the sky down- when you think, everything becomes a matter of distance and no unit of measurement measures us all. No measure. Immoderate music a cloakroom full of violins but I wanted amber, the umber of shadow on suntanned women also trying to remember everybody was who everybody was. Now if you get lost in this music, this knot-browed deep-breathing kneeling music, you'll be in a place where everything is found, why should I bother you with imagining to make you remember the everlasting Christmas of the heart music is always people on the move but where are they going? where the star fell off its sky and came to us and we listen, can I wear you on my hands can I touch the world by you can I pick it up and bring it home? Home is the hard word here, to live at last in the word or even the sound of a word is the realest estate to live in your word, your magdalen mouth | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BACCHUS by RALPH WALDO EMERSON LOVERS HOW THEY COME AND PART by ROBERT HERRICK TO CERTAIN POETS by ALFRED JOYCE KILMER THE CLIFF SWALLOWS by DEBRA NYSTROM FRANCE; THE 18TH YEAR OF THESE STATES by WALT WHITMAN |