PEACE LYRIC by JANE MILLER

In a dream of sex & blindness,
boats grow rare on a river.

In a meteor shower which I feel but can't see
(as I sense there's something in the future

though I don't feel it),
the tossing of plums & grapefruit.

At the pole dance at Picuris,
a sheep tied to a pole.

At Santo Domingo, dancemasters & clowns attend a line
of elders & children;

a breeze floats down, an elder escapes with a story in his hands & feet;
in the morning I learn who was awake.

Arhythmic beats from turquoise & white deaf & dumb
drums, olive & gold-painted,

dark-skinned, when they rest they rest on their sides.
- & I will be dead, this will have been me -

not to my homeland, although that too, nor a lover, exactly,
nor others surely, nor water & skyline, those too,

but to that absolute lure, intuition,
a coal sunset after diamonds

from the incremental gazes of the maiden dancers.
From the gazes of the dancers,

the laughter of my young lover
for those who want to know

all I will know of having a daughter.
At this altitude

grasses sprout like headdresses on the roofs of adobe, & in them
the dream of a blustery day in a city.

Under the wheel
on the High Road to Taos, deconstruction, demystification, demolition,

the unexpected downpour daily at four or five.
No longer harassed by my passions, hunter yellow & spring yellow,

violet blue, light gray,
there comes to pass like midsummer through a mountain

cheerfulness, sorrow, serenity.
No one go with me.

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

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