By Bruce Bond
Photo by Benjamin Blättler via Unsplash
As a kid, I loved the ancient accidents left to rust,
the colors of my wounds made lovely in light
of suffering’s new address. I longed to see my cast
off problems in the rust-infected metal, the stiff
black fabric eaten by the rain. A long-discarded car
drips slowly back to earth like a driver at the end
of a journey. A body lies down, the mind drives on.
What I know of heaven I learned from the sparrow,
how the lords of common ground power its ascent.
I studied the ghost curve that pierces every moment
like a thread inside the pearls of stiller postures.
Less a reversal than a bend in a river, a continuous
departure. What I know of a closure is a dying fall.
I had an uncle who died at the wheel. He fell asleep.
How anyone could tell, I do not know. He fell
and kept on falling in the hole I prepared for him.
The emptiness I call the promise of a better life.
A quarry of water the color of a sky. I want to say
he visited me. He was more than a song I played
in my head. I want, I want. Is there any affinity more
beautiful and empty, more flammable come dawn.
I had an uncle who broke the guardrail with his fender.
Nothing is nothing to me. It is fullness that terrifies.
The bottom of the canyon. The basin that says
a bell is struck, and the calm to come is music,
the fullness of nothing coming at you in the dark.