Locus

This collection of torches convulsing in ink: 



it is not what I wanted to give you.



All whites look older at night and yet 



the tapestry has to include them… 



I wanted you to sip this one swatch of light



that stands singly, and 



the tan peasant wind that catches and fans  



the thin milk of its undergarment, and 



how morning blood un-hasps 



the hatches behind sleep’s cogs, flooding



and the blasted furnace that risks ecstasis 



according to…* Is this truly the color of my hands?* 



I wanted to give you the searing first glance



again, wanted you to grab and fold



into that one swatch of cloth 



and stay and raise your hands 



and your children’s hands later when  



I melt into cadenza and we waft hoarsily past these



pinewood rafters, records of starlings—then



till chance is at last served raw to stirring gods,



till I can’t name the scent of any ripeness



and no longer know what cool water means,



I will needle my eyes into  



the position of afterstars. I will make 



light trip and sift off sandstone in  



the quarries. We have witnessed



too many rutilant past tenses.  



Now I shall be the saver of pauses.



We will need breath later.



We erred. Sky should be easier.  



I thought this would be different, this looking up. 



I thought there would be a granary.