Letters
An Unwritten Elegy
A day is not a dream or a poem,
but perhaps a well placed palm
pressed against a rising wall at dusk;
the sweeping scythe with hushed
tones: gathering, spreading the wheat;
walking interminable furrows to meet
the wilting day, the growing dawn,
both the moment of unborn thought
when wounds like shadows might pierce
the mould, might gut a memory
of other days, of other dawns,
of other gatherings and spreadings.