Postcards from the Knife Thrower
May 17 Red Bluff, CA
Picking apples making pie, patching a shirt pinning a hem,
breath after breath until we lose count. It’s been too long
it’s only been a little while. We’re not a sunset, quiet snow
‐fall; we’re muffled gunshots, silent whip cracks in the wind.
The want is bad. I sharpen knives, one by one; taste the wet
sky. Your blue dress remains unmended, unworn; a memory
cut, sliced then twisted away. I’ve lived despite premonitions
and omens; an empty room never promises anyone anything.
So far no word from the underworld. Go ahead.
Shut your eyes. It doesn’t matter. It will find you.
Today is unseasonably warm, spring‐like, the sky,
an Easter blue dotted with clouds brackish, dirty.
This is the view from the last horizon. I’m the for
ever man transparent and indestructible; rename
the birds in heaven the animals on earth; rename
you, mark you and travel past what is mappable.