212.
This is Book VIII of the Aeneid
we finally go inland here
where the dark river loves us
into the unknown interior of your
house
where maples hang overslow waters
when we look down to see our faces we
see nothing
the water has faces of its own
animals (this is all about animals)
begin to talk now
we write home saying “animals talk to
us now
what are we going to do with our
silences
our precious silence?” but no letters
come back
deer run right into us we can’t
understand the crows.
213.
I thought she was grieving in her
ogival cloak
her face white but when I bent to
console her
she was laughing she comforted me
she put words in my mouth I wake
half-healed
have to live this clear thing not
just know it
her word was sweet and I spoke it all
day
in the dark country where everybody
lives
keening sometimes or laughing at the
faces
peering out from the hillside ancient
still young
their skin soft as lamb’s ears pale
as mistletoe
they look as if they remember me
but who am I now?
