--Dan Beachy-Quick
slow gold, everlasting
forsythia behind the eyes it’s spring
spare no arrows, sparrows
empty the quiver of song
swallows quick allow the earth
a slow life never touched
hyacinth with his head wound never healing
a purple wound in the long spring behind the eyes
owl loud in the old dark wood
who darkens the night and how
in the galingale a lonely hour
the nightingale keeps awake all night
cassandra burns her hand on the cornerstone
the widow looks out the window
pulling apart her grief an empty loom
in the fig trees that fringe the field warblers
sing the dust that blurs the war
the crow puts on another crow’s armor, borrows
a crown, limps away to battle
how surrender but not submit is this the ethic
arms around the knees of whom, who’s there the air
the thrush from distant epochs hushes
the fatherless epic where the child cries
a jar on a hill fills with darkness, the nightjar
sucks milk from a sleeping goat
the logic of dew in the morning is not the logic of noon
a heedful retreat in the face of being
what dampens the blade dampens the root
the earth’s bitter turn, the wind blows west
and the wheat bends, but not the bittern
once again the robin woke me at dawn…
once again the robin woke me…
the cloud is a rock spiritually magnified
the mind is a cloud condensed truth forgets itself
what is narcissus doing now still looking down
into the pool so long ago become air what is the rain
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