Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Jubal Archer's False Horizon

Brown fallow fields ladder across the hills to a false horizon.
I am no longer able to see beyond these simple fields and hills,
or fathom the distance beyond the buoys in the harbor.
That world is on the far side of my vision.
Early stars hang over the water, birds frozen in the sky.
Boats without keels are safe in the low tide.
Gulls circle, drop from the sky for crabs or clams,
their incandescence makes me think of falling stars.
The wind brushes the hair from my forehead.
The first fairy strokes of dew are in the air.
Already, in the dimness of purple light,
darkness leans against my eyes.
I listen for the hush of grass –
the water stills as if it might hear it.
I wait to feel the magnetism of the moon –
the buoys ring as if they do.
I think of a glass of water, puzzling and perishable yet still pleasant.
I think of God’s body trapped in an atom of bread.
I think of women putting flowers on graves,
I think of the men, boys really, who inhabit those graves, and why.
The moon is bright and eases the darkness.
Still, I belong to the shadows at night.
There is a comfort in their dependable blackness.
They do not bring a false horizon.

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