Conclave

 

Those who come before,

The ten thousand angels merged in a murky river,

The brown god sliding by with the poet’s arm in a sling.

The maze of the underworld a Spring surrounded by flowers and bees.

 

To knock on the practical door of history is to let everyone in.

We are as one mighty and diffuse family adrift on tides, bellowing with the cows,

Knowing the young among us and the old hands on fire with reconstruction.

Fishers, farmers, gatherers.

 

Deep in hypnosis we might touch a living chord and give blessings beyond our power,

Ratified, absolved, made one in the truth of what has been.

To be made is a truth.

To be true is to be beautiful, tolerant

As in times of war the birds still fly on the blue sky and

Nest in hopes of the young.

Children fulfill as to the future what galloped by

While the past is waiting for its feed.

 

While the weeds pull at the concrete,

The grave diggers spruce up their outfits.

The old methods seem no longer to apply but

Here we sit with our hands in our laps.

The good old laps of the dead and the misgivings that didn’t make it.

Growth of the soil, Knut Hamsun,

Brave boats, keels waxed with blubber, faces blackened with fire coals.

The spit of meat turns and

The seasons bring us back around as to an empty tomb.

 

Could it be that all have risen in me?

That in you I see reflected the 400 generations.

Your cares are my cares.

I am as much yours as you are my ancestor, only better,

Since we are living and can talk of the here and now.

The birds again rise and go like planes across the sky.

 

We lay our heads on the pillow for a long nap.

A blue sign of forgiveness and love.

The sky darkens ever so little as twilight or dawn creep in.

We are left together, waking up or going down to sleep.

Let us take a moment for ourselves to keep,

In each memory alive, a precious leaf on the tree of life

Be she sprout or orange and dry as Fall,

Let the recognitions be sure.

 

That we are all together a breath in a body or

Drops in a great pool quivering with each slight addition

Of mists or each drain cycling our sleeping selves away to

Some other lover and

Séance of compatriots and co-conspirators.