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JOB

  

The Boneyard

  

Despite the face that twists into a nonsense cruel 

     With denial; the sorrow-drowned heart that shudders 

With grief, heavy, hungry and absolute as a hole 

     In eyesight; the dead thunder of desire that mutters 

Out of earshot; the catch in the throat at the warble 

     Of fountain water; the tears provoked by onions 

Of sharp sunlight; despite these droll propaganda 

     For death’s final say (as if the entirety                                            

Of life were a phantom limb in one’s own), everything 

     That has been stamped, issued and posted with a soul 

Leaves a trace of itself – known even beforehand – 

     As if last addresses map out destinations, 

As if the wind could sculpt the world from a word’s breathing, 

     As if what already is came formed from what will be.