there is a corner where I choose to sleep
where the low ceiling slants
and meets above the supports
the walls are porous, I hear your pulse beat
and feel the moisture
gather about your hands
I never see you descend into the ground,
I can only imagine the stillness
of the tunnels, the lack of sound
commentary:
don't stay too long in Leadville,
move on to the campfire
where we huddled together
like some ancient tribe
learning the power of stories
to stave away the night
tell the story again
but this time remember
that it is only another town
where the blood drying
on the rocks
is your own
grandfather
the crossbeam creaks
when grandmother cries,
the floorboards muffle
the drunken rage
of her husband
she rocks steadily above him
in the master bedroom
with two generations of boys
in her lap
they are all men now
and each has taken his turn
hauling the sad figure
up the stairs
commentary:
I have also seen
this inner structure
of ancestral bonds,
each fiber having the color of pain
passing between father and son
and on through to grandsons
I understand that it is whole
that it is pure
that I lose this view when I am in it,
pulling against the weight
of this old man's body
that I am carrying
oracle