Tuesday, October 28, 2008

SQUIRREL ON A LEAFLESS BRANCH

SQUIRREL ON A LEAFLESS BRANCH


Squirrel on a leafless branch in the rain,

a comma looking for a clause

in the periodic sentence of the tree

delving into the matter

of its own unassuming origins

like the last affable thought

that just interviewed me.

Who the fuck knows?

Denuded down to the duff

I look upon my own leaves

like so many theories I’ve shed

throughout this long night, this brief day,

all the useless maps that carried me away

with every gust of wind

to show me where here was.

Now I’m all crazy starmaps

brailled by constellations

trying to remember the names of their capitols

that starred me like a sheriff or an aster

to this empty treasure chest

I’ve spent my life looking for.

Take a look. There’s nothing inside

but this darkness that has given up its dead

like birds out over a shoreless sea.

Things used to be a lot more drastic

when I would run to put the fires out

my heart had started like an arsonist

by weeping jewels and mirrors

over the burning wedding bed

that woke every morning up like firetrucks and bread.

I took those sails down like skies

a long time ago,

shook the stars and blackholes out of the sheets

and let my eyes wander off into space

like water on the moon

to find a more appropriate face.

Now when I get to the bottom of things,

or even just sink my way through

this unfathomable awareness

that keeps supposing me to me,

I’m as barren and rootless

as a lightning strike on the moon.

And nothing is revealed.

And nothing catches fire.

And there’s nothing

but the alms of a desert

in the craters of these begging bowls

that gape like the empty eye-sockets

of an enlightened insight

that once flashed across the night

like protein looking for a home

in the vast homelessness of it all,

or the still life embedded

in a matchead that’s gone out

like a flower from its flaring,

or better yet

the way I am bound to my life

like the holy cornerstone of a shrine

that revolves around me

like this old meteorite of a skull,

this kissing stone,

that knows me well.


PATRICK WHITE