Up the Road Apiece by Christopher Woods

  I am looking at a picture
  of wheat fields flanked by woods.
  There is a cloud for each mystery

   that cannot be described.
   Down the road, there is a group
   of words huddled together
   near the railroad tracks.
   They are about to make love.
   They have no problem with infinity,
   and either do I.
   Come on, let’s go!
   J. Spanos (1933-2009) Crossroads of the Infinite

                                  1

Of all the places
I was given to love,
there is a place made of water
where I return
every time language fails.

I remember to stay here
a little longer
than the rest of the Earth.

I like the way the leaves
glide, as if the current
is holding its breath.

Some words take longer than others
to surface, and this one
is worth the wait.

If nothing else, I can chase
my shadow under the trees,
or follow the cardinals note
by note through the underbrush.

They know where they are going –
I do not need to understand.

                                  2

I can see the hole they cut
into the Earth. At night,
it looks like a pool of black
water where ghosts swim
on their backs, long strokes
that stretch moonlight
into wavering fingertip threads.

They are afraid of the water.

I can see them huddle along
the edges for warmth.

They take the little of me
that remains and change
into a game the dead
play on vacation.

I see them blowing rings
with my breath.

I hate them. I want to
stop them, but I cannot stay.

They have nothing to say.

                                3

I see you making love.

I cover you with everything
I have. I cover you

with my silence,
and when you move,

you sing together a music
that holds me here,

where your notes and your key
echo my desire

to be human, to linger.

I turn you lovingly
into living sculpture,

warm to the touch.

I measure you carefully,
your flesh in my hands like clay.

I never learned the difference.

                                  4

I do not remember my origin.

I know one constant: look forward
into the void.

I wish I held a string in my hand
and could follow it back
to its origin,
but I might not like what I find –

I know only two letters by heart:
alpha and omega.

I would rather stare forward
and travel into the places
where a language is never born.

Here I begin, each time
I open my eyes.

                                 5

I want to whisper
to tips of trees as twilight

recedes and ripples
into memory: the first time

I touched atmosphere
and created color.

No one was there,
but I can still see the way

the leaves turned in my arms
as I pressed again

and again
into the language of vein and cell:

I never let them down,
never lose my touch.

                                  6

Early July, a breezy afternoon,
and I am outside looking at flowers.

As I remember
now, beneath this bubbling splash

of rain, I tried to step
into your tiny blue

eyes, to touch the sharp needles
of the pine trees beside the porch,

taste the green perfume
and watch the kaleidoscope

inside your eyes twinkle
as I strain to part clouds.

I can almost hear you speak
a wish, a whisper,

a wisp wholly human,
but I am not permitted

to remain — I move
out of range,

I sleep on the edge
where your dreams

are born, where the light 
you see

is your alone.

                                 7

Look at me
passing over your madness,

water and grass
so much of what I love

I forget to shine.

I become a snowflake
that cannot find its way South,

my life for a moment
alive in a wordless flame,

the constellations writing
the only words I believe,

Spring dropping its weight
into the medium

my life becomes.

   There is only one element
   left to find, but I cannot
   remember its name.

   I have no lips. Smile for me.
   It is not too late.

   F. Lystrander (1168-1224) Metaphysical Elements of Praise

                                 1

I cannot remember the world.

I hear the sounds of a guitar
echo from the walls of houses.

Colors from the market
sift through my body,
smells of coffee and warm
carnations satiate my spirit.

I know the world is not mine.

There are no doorways
I can open. I have nothing
to sell: my thoughts
have no meaning here
without language.

Dust falls on cobblestones
and shadows take flight
into hands the valley
will never touch.

I am lonely without the world.

Dancing, dressed
only in the scarves of memory,
I appear in an open courtyard
fated, fickle, formless.

I show them everything
and change nothing.

                                 2

I scratch a quill on parchment
that will someday open unborn
flesh. I know you:

instruments where instinct
cannot hide. I see
how so much dust in the air
never reminds you of a final
flicker of breath. I move

hands until they wither
into fingers on new hands
writing old words
on new parchment
in a dead language. A new tongue

is all I need to move rocks
into position

and wait for praise.

                                  3

I know where echoes sleep.

True, the toil to carry language
is theirs alone: syllables weigh
the most just before they find time
to die.

I know when they are ready.

The air is heavy before rain,
before wind opens her lips
one last time.

I look for the last place on Earth.

Go ahead. Try to find answers.
Look in the hollows,
look in the sadness of my eyes.

If you know where they are born,
you do not need me.

I will understand.

I have patient hands.

                                4

I wanted you to continue,
fly through my body,
find your home in my breath.

Our existence is fragile.

Yours is made of tender air, blown kisses
that find a home beneath your wings.

Your shadow on the ground
is all the proof I need,
and now, without you,
I will warm your body,
even in death.

                                 5

I have certain limits:
I cannot pass through solids.

Imagine the mess inside flesh,
the damage I would do, the unexpected
revelations as cells burn for me.

I mistake each cry for help
as a song. Inspiration is pure
when its origin is forgotten,
taken for praise. Think of a dam,
pools of heat that rise unseen
next to trees, boulders, torsos.

At night I trickle back to nothing,
each particle of my being moves
through blades of grass and up
the trunks of trees that lift me
into the open sky
where I rise
above everything I touch
and call it day.

                                 6

I sculpted your body.

Each wrinkle felt my lips,
each blemish felt the brush
of my hands.

My fingers made a rosary
of your body.

When they placed you
in the ground, I pressed
my eyes into the soil.

I wanted to see
the hidden language
where flesh is born.

I wanted to hear
my name, where no one
can go,
not even me.

                                 7

I saw you wash your hands
in the open. You tried not to look
at them. The clouds that day
spelled forever in every tongue.

My happiness was complete.
Today, I could see
through flesh, and nothing
made by human hands
would stop me.

I began to sing
as I passed through clouds,
and I could see every pair
of eyes turn toward heaven.

When metal and blood
came together at last,
I began to hear your words
soak the ground.

I entered the earth
at last, the hidden places
opened up before my name,
and even death smiled.

     Try to remember
     History records many open windows
     And only one constant: light. 
                L. Astorelle (d. 578) The Mystery of Light

                                1

I let paint move where it wants-
within reason there are many rooms.
Later, my hand will slow into shadow,
determined to lift the life of object
into substance. I want to add notes,
if I could, but they do not let me.
It is not time. The leaves catch little
of me that remains here, and later,
rain will fall. Happiness comes
and goes–I  need
sleep, and sweetly, soon.

                      2

Slanted, I stretch across the open
window–the child is almost born.
The mother is flushed with screaming
blood. The hands follow me
into darkness, where god waits-
they know what to do.
No one is outside. Here,
with water, clay jars, linens and milk,
there is time for one last look
at the stars, then I am finished.

                       3

They torture me slowly, of course,
with a knife that is blunt on one side.
My screams stop at the moment
I become animal, still gurgling
after my head is gone. The windows,
covered. The chanting, goes on.

                                4

Without thinking, I curved
love into a ribcage, little
by little settling into form
and measureable language.

I knew time would lift
hidden designs to a suitable fate.

As I walked on sand,
I thought of wet
grass, distant stars,
and oil, soft gurgle
of hidden elements
that wait, sometimes,
forever. Eyes, I know,
find all the answers,
and lips, lips
never tell the truth.

                                5

I was her only salvation,
the mineral
inside her skull,
the miracle, mirror, masquerade.
Now she will touch mortality
for the rest of human existence,
and I will touch water and soil
before I pass beyond the visible,
before I reach the unseen,
where other worlds wait
to be born
and no words exist
for this, or anything else
that hides in darkness
and sleeps.

                                 6

I made sure the fields were warm
and shadows beneath the foliage
cool to touch. In the open,
I could hear vultures
cry out with meaty beaks.

It was a good day for killing,
and from what I understand,
a certain glee engulfed the survivors.

I remember one, wiping his mouth
on his sleeve after it was over,
and then he stared at the sky
for a long time. Our eyes met
somewhere miles beyond
the horizon, and I was unhappy
when he looked away to kiss
the ground.

                                 7

I stretched out my arms
to meet a weary traveler.
I knew he was ready.

I saw his face through the open
window, and his eyes
never left mine. It was
time: I could see
clouds move in his
iris, and each one spelled
a different word
for Now.

Photo by Adam Jeffries Schwartz