Dispatch #57

Found Poem

Found Poem
       		      for Jacqueline, in memory 
     


i.

     When we visited
Dickinson’s grave our
shadows crossed the stone—
            crossed out “CALLED
BACK.” What else was there
        to say or to see. 




ii.

     This is translation,
this is poetry,
the alchemy in
             a word—in
death—you continue 
         to pronounce yourself.





iii.

      I imagine you
wanted, finally,
to be free from words—
             in the rain
ghost-pale petals drift
        beyond metaphor.






iv.

      The space between lines—
horizon on top
of horizon, where 
             you wait for
meaning to rise from 
        silence—a small sun. 





v.

       Fat bees vault between 
blossoms, loop through light 
the wind can’t contain—
               winter gone
in colors flooding 
          the margin of you. 





vi.

     Nameless, wordless light,
this is what remains
of you: the outline
             of a dream
drawn deeper into
       dawn—into morning. 





        
vii.

        And now you’re nowhere
being everywhere
at once, found and un-
                found, without
language to brace you
          from becoming earth.