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Two Poems

"Just a Closer Walk with Thee"

But not too close, man, just not too close.
Between the divine and the divine
                                                 lies a lavish shadow.
Do we avoid it or stand in it?
Do we gather the darkness around us,
                                                       or do we let it slide by?
Better to take it into our hearts,
Better to let us have it.
                                Better to let us be what we should be.

Tonight, the sexual energy of the evergreens
                                                                 removes us
From any such attitude.
At least for a momentary intake.
                                              And then it's
Back in its natural self,
Between the It and the It.
The fly that won't leave the corpse will end up in the grave.

"My Old Clinch Mountain Home"

I keep on hoping a theme will bite me,
                                                       and leave its two wounds
In my upper arm and in my heart.
A story line of great destiny,
                                         or fate at least.
It's got to be serious, as my poor flesh is serious.
So, dog, show me your teeth and bite me.
                                                            Show me some love.

Such little consequence, our desires.
Better to be the last chronicler of twilight, and its aftermath.
Better to let your hair swing loose, and dust up the earth.
I'd like to be a prophet,
                                  with animals at my heels.
I'd like to have a staff, and issue out water wherever it fell.

Lord, how time does alter us,
                                          it goes without saying.
There is an afterlight that follows us,
                                                     and fades as clockticks fade.
Eventually we stand on it puddled under our shoes.
The darkness that huddles there
Is like the dew that settles upon the flowers,
                                                               invisible, cold, and everywhere.

When the wind comes, and the snow repeats us,
                                                                     how like our warped lives it is,
Melting objects, disappearing sounds
Like lichen on gnarled rocks.
For we have lived in the wind, and loosened ourselves like ice melt.
Nothing can hold us, I've come to know.
                                                           Nothing, I say.

Charles Wright

Farrar, Straus and Giroux

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