Mirage

After a point that is passed without being seen

more and more of the going appears to

be going back but that is another

cloud shadow there was never any such

dwelling place although having once gone away

it seems that there must have been a reason

for setting out and then a reason for

thinking so a first season returning

a new ending a being that the hand

reaches for in the dark and finds and goes on

trying to find this time this time the hope

ringing ringing it must all be the sound

of a mind if only because it could

not be anything else floating down once more

over the vast scars of the butchered land

sinking through every ghost that was murdered in

our name the layers of invisible

intentions the word morning in the plural

its fingers of sunlight on floors its trembling

garments its air of promise that large word

its Europe every inch of it turned over

and over by one kind of life burying

and bringing up year after year looking

for another life until at last a single

crow is flying across translucent June pastures

and mustard fields under high tension wires

in rain and between files of pointed trees

on the empty road into the air small children

are running with arms raised toward the clouds

running and falling and I am running

like a small child running with arms raised

falling getting to my feet running on

after all having decided that

I am going to tell the whole story