Thursday, January 7, 2021

Jorie Graham / "This"



by Jorie Graham

Jorie Graham / "Esto"

Full moon, & the empty tree’s branches─correction─the tree’s
expose and recover it, suddenly, letting it drift and rise a bit then
swathing it again,
treating it like it was stuff, no treasure up there growing more
bluish and ablaze,
as the wind trussles the wide tall limbs in-
in its nervous ceaslessness─of this minute, of that minute─
All the light there is
playing these limbs like strings until
you can
hear the
icy offering of winter which is wind in trees blocking and
revealing moon & it’s
cold &
in the house someone is
sending instructions. Someone thinks death can be
Inside it is magic, footprints are never made
visible. The moon slicks along this human coming and
going with no prints to it. The moon
all over the
idea that this «all»
could be (and no one would mind) a
game. Noise, priests, provinces, zip codes
coil up out of the grasses
towards it. Groups
seize power. Honor exists. Just punishment exists. The sound of
servants not being
set free. Being told it is postponed again. Hope as it
exists in them
now. Those that were once living how they are not
here in this
moonlight, & how there are things one feels instantly
ashamed about in it, & also, looking at it,
the feeling of a mother tongue in the mouth─& how you can, looking away,
make those trees lean, silvered, against
the idea of the universal─really lean─their tips trying to
scratch at it─
Until it sizzles in one: how one could once give birth, that’s what the shine
says, and that distant countries
don’t exist, enemies do, and as for the great mantle of
individuality (gleaming) &
innocence & fortune─look up: the torturer yawns waiting for his day to be
done─he leans against
the trees for a rest, the implement shines, he looks up.

Sea Change, 2008

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