The Ghosts of Jay MillAr Read Free Page A

thing of myself that i live.
    what could i be without you? i’m pretty worn out
    of sight against the wind and amongst our many shapes,
    as they come into being and not at all yet drifting on
    the slope of darkness you should call night.
    which of course, as anyone with
    half a heart will tell you,
    will only go down from here on
    in through slippery shadows of air.
    it’s all folk music
    of the                air,
    or something similar,
    a quiet imitation,
    a quiet right through the trees
    of the trees
    beating the thickness
    of wood, something
    that goes on
    a bright heavy
    summer, a gun full
    of heat that rolls
    the wind, so slow,
    going nowhere into the night.
    i find it so, i don’t know,
    perfect, this balance
    between heaven and sky.
    the unceremonial heaven of leaves,
    being down, pulls thusly, thusly
    and is soft, near the roots,
    i imagine the few of us, caught
    pressed flowers, holding on branches,
    we are so full of sorrow and beauty
    that much could be regret.
    we are filled with the cold
    air of two lovers
    and Glory.
    birds dart from second to second
    and we flutter, wait for what moment
    (breathe)
    what thoughts have we, what lives
    yes, we have thought
fuck you
    in forest ways, and creatures
    drunk on their own ways, go on
    and hide with us, gather us up, as we
    grow old and vision fades until we are blind
    until we are those creatures
    as we turn with the earth, and how
    (breath)
    with wind and rain and sun and birds
    each a piece of weather, what thoughts
    our lives
    it’s fine to fall, fine to drift as thought
    it were memory you feed upon (wits)
    dumb radical cool breeze (behavior)
    falls through what if the greengrey air were black
    that is the city, where we wake, and
    storing up for winter, nuts, (undertow) bolts,
    sounds of busses and of cars, all the drift as though
    and the movement beyond, light birds (dead soldiers
    come to life) presumably the small ones, periodically
    outside, light panic rules air going on leave
    then one long string of (notes)
    are anyone who
    falls against their own breath
    feels us here
    listens carefully
    who knows will disappear
    are anyone who is going
    are speaking like they do
    anyone who is soft
    against their own skin
    like nests
    are watching
    care about
    only know such gifts
    what dark we have caught in branches (sleeves)
    all day, dark, and more here, dark
    piled up light as all those who sleep
    while we do not. forever asleep, dark
    ourselves (the text is black on us
    (we never write) and we never forget)
    any dream of the day in our lives, we
    (RIpPle)
    are what dark is in the light of (this
    ink) the trunk’s white skin, forever
    asleep, we are awake and piled high
    sink into the dream’s great earth
    ................... 11
    these flakes fall
    cover
    Leaf Legend
    FOR EACH LEAF
    a star
    they are so
    here
    The Present Today is Built from the Past
12
    Equinox ‘96
    stupid it is to run from the weather, the sun, the clouds, as falling leaves the air dry, all the brittle stars against those seasons that pass daily 13 as though they were out to get you: remember it takes two to linger in conversation, the rest is just thought and it’s all the same thing, we take warmer blankets now, and dream more often, alive, meeting strange out of the way breathing, slower now, noticing the dream was just awake staring at the window 14 a decrease in pressure, the heat easing off, so obvious to everyone, everything present to remind us that the world is not here with you in it. think about it and we will linger on edge, imagine, noting what there is, as abstractions we are left to ourselves, to preach, to meditate on what to consume and exhume, rolling along that slant again, of faces brown against the sky after the sun, tired, we who survived. light.          trees.          a window.          7:45 a.m.
and we are