Virgental journal
by Sarah Sloat
[ poetry - october 04 ]
I
The light is tired
as arms are tired.
Near 10 o'clock, one fiery scrap
still glows above
Grossglockner mountain.
The book of poems I'm reading,
deeply thumbed,
is coming apart at the spine.
II
Day begins slowly.
High, high summer -
true end of the year.
I weary of being myself.
Late afternoon, I send my thoughts
to a higher meadow to be stuffed
with poppies and thistle.
III
Light moves sideways over grass.
Once I drank the caramel light of Lecce
and drowned in love in an Amsterdam canal.
When did everything begin
to remind me of something else?
IV
In the half-timber house next door,
someone is learning piano.
The fingers suspend my attention.
Landing at last on the correct keys,
it's as if the notes
had just been decided.
Sorting dark from light chords,
I know my future
and watch it play out,
as it does,
slowly.
V
It has rained and children run
down the wet road, where
the light seems to lift itself up.
In a vase on the table,
a bee finds the noose
at the core of the rose.
