For Charles Wright
I lift and drag two clothes-line posts
nailed like heavy wooden crosses
from the solitary place we hung
our guilty clothes to dry like sins
scented in the blowing sun,
over my shoulder toward the woodpile
to decay and rot: I am a thief
climbed down from resurrecting death,
now returned for the final theft,
dragging crosses across the yard
to free you from eternal labor.
Go. No longer crucify
your dirty laundry on the cross.
The sun, with its shoelaces hanging down,
the sky, with its shirt undone,
ragged clouds ripped by the wind,
and stars like small holes
in a black and seamless fabric,
seem to reveal a brighter flesh—
as we skin our knee,
lose our ball in the dark,
can’t find our way home.
always haunt me, buried in the trees,
far away, like shimmering ghostlights, calling
disembodied amid the leaves, floating
or arranged on hills like ghost notes,
moving up and down, without sound
except for the hum of halogen or carbon
stars floating on staves strung up on poles,
melodies always above us, moving away from us,
dancing just below the hill of night . . . .