Listen to Caroline Finkelstein reading this poem. When lust avenged itself by disappearing,
we were still sincere
and amenable and
wanted to continue,
meaning though we hadn’t
lost one cardinal-feather’s
weight of passion
our selves appeared,
the way coiled ferns do
in spring woods.
Brief months. Difficult, flickering shadow
of the self ascendant, airlight,
although we balanced
carefully on wetland planks.
This was the portrait
we tacked to our wall. We liked
our mastery, yes,
we liked posing ourselves
after all that time of being
posed, of posing with.
A view from the window:
a red truck, the porch edge,
what we saw were images
of prayers, the willingness of the ordinary.
If we were birds we flew
from x to y leaf depending on
the kind of woods we found.
We did not read the paper.
We did not say in rotten market places,
tomorrow food will come.
It didn’t come. Flies came.
Today there was a crisis:
a large curlicue of sorrow
wrapped up Troy
where Hector turned to offal.
We were the open blue
of the Aegean. We were the little fishing boats.
