Dawn Potter
in the moon, on the moon, through the dark
front hall of the abandoned asylum,
in rodeo dust, against the white forehead
of the nun who smacked Teresa with a ruler,
under the backseat of the Dodge Dart,
next to the wheat pennies and the stubs
of candy cigarettes, along the highway
with the needles and the beer cans
and the forgotten pelt of a long-dead squirrel,
beside me, beside the heart thunking wetly
inside the cavity of my chest, under the slow
brush-beat of a snare in the green-tinted club
on Logan Street, above the bantam rooster
crowing on the wheelbarrow, above the sick child
breathing harshly in his sleep, in the memory
of the song we heard in Canterbury Cathedral,
it was Beethoven, we cried, and the pilgrims
came and went and loved and died, and time
opened its ears and listened and time fell silent
before it sang again.
front hall of the abandoned asylum,
in rodeo dust, against the white forehead
of the nun who smacked Teresa with a ruler,
under the backseat of the Dodge Dart,
next to the wheat pennies and the stubs
of candy cigarettes, along the highway
with the needles and the beer cans
and the forgotten pelt of a long-dead squirrel,
beside me, beside the heart thunking wetly
inside the cavity of my chest, under the slow
brush-beat of a snare in the green-tinted club
on Logan Street, above the bantam rooster
crowing on the wheelbarrow, above the sick child
breathing harshly in his sleep, in the memory
of the song we heard in Canterbury Cathedral,
it was Beethoven, we cried, and the pilgrims
came and went and loved and died, and time
opened its ears and listened and time fell silent
before it sang again.
[from Calendar]
2 comments:
I was hoping that you would post another poem -- thank you!
Your last few lines mirror the book that I am currently reading: Cuddy, by Benjamin Myers. He uses poetry, prose, diary entries, letters, short quotes, etc. to chronicle the death of St. Cuthbert and the building of Durham Cathedral. I am engrossed, so far.
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