By Robert Mezey from The Geography of Home
Once it was enough simply
to be here. Neither to know
nor to be known, I crossed
in the fullsight of everything
that stood dumbly in sunlight
or drank the standing water
when it was clear. I called them
by their names and they were what
I called them. In the low glare
of afternoon I advanced
upon my shadow, glancing
at the grass unoccupied,
into the wind and into
the light. What I did not know
passed shuddering toward me
over the bowed tips of the
grass and what I could not see
raced sunward away from me
like dust crystals or a wave
returning to its yellow source.
This morning the wet black eye
of a heifer darkens with the
passing seconds, holding my gaze.
It has grown cold. Flies
drop from the wall; guinea fowl
roost in the sycamore. Old
dog in the corner, the day
ripples into its fullness.
Surrounded by eyes and tongues,
I begin to feel the waste
of being human. The rose
of the sky darkens to a wound
and closes with one question
on its lips, and the million
stars rise up into the blackness
with theirs. If I spoke to this
formerly it was as one
speaks to a mirror or scummed
pond, not guessing how deep it is-
Now I see what has no name
or singularity and
can think of nothing to say.
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