A Young Breeze Gets Restless

a young breeze gets restless when the light begins to move
and moves itself, goes through the grass
and rearranges everything and then again
and then a freight train moves in confidence
through wordless neighborhoods and blurry groups of trees
and sounds a warning, slightly mournful and mechanical
and then one bird and then three hundred
name the space again and then rename the name
as "easy disappearance," as "the miser gave her
a kiss and a promise," as "the little white
stain is true," as "Christ
is like the candle flame, I think,
like a willow tree, like anything that loves to move
delicate and dangerous, to light a house or burn it down,
bonehouse the same, the one infinity that pours and runs
like a stream coming down from a terrible fierce mountain
sweet and clear and very cold, too cold to drink
save from his hands" and that one holds for a while

now the train is past incorporated places, Sister Gone
and Slowness in Control is the name of the first town,
Wren Who Owns the Red Bridge, A Gangster called Too-Sweet
Ancient Legs of Angels Blue and Smooth,
Two Sirens Ignored by a Crow, The Tender Motion Repeated
are the names of others, seen in what the books
call morning (or evening
or pretended shade, with six grown cats along
to carry small wax packages of truth and lift their faces
at a precious flow of breeze that smells of
birds and leopards, of a gray ocean in a long
gray coat and dirty boots and just ahead
that place where the fire goes
after it burns out and goes away somewhere)

Robert Gregory | Mudlark No. 17
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