Mark DeCarteret
hymn
here where bats
spied on us
where they've
bulldozed
more trees
than there are
words to tell
about them
I am tilted towards
the river
where Jesus walks
among us
like a ghost--
so funny how
the signs on this road
never tell us
how far we've
to go
but only
how near we
had been
all along
re: wind
well
it hardly
reached us
as far as
I was
concerned
hell yes
it still
persisted
(funny
how it feels
so much
colder
than it
looks)
so when I
have word
I'll certainly
pass it
along
regardless
its burn
or its
chill
act (of god)
they're really only half-wings:
a vestigial layering
but then some start w/home
owner & a storm
snow applied
almost flightless
a more & more adult process
grayer in scent
& before you know something has split open:
chubby little umbrellas are needed
the leaves no longer
scurrying to the next-leaves
w/not even the near-leaves
to keep them from weakening to dust
re: vision
I am left
w/the line
I x'd out:
something
about a sparrow
or a parrot
being dragged
by a string
or dug up
during spring
something
both cursed
& divine
a pariah or a
saint of sorts
always lurking
in the shadows
or at rest
who I know
even if I
was able to
lure out
or unmine
would suggest
that the blankest
of pages
tells me
more than I
would ever
need to know
(or there
abouts)
new skin to watch over us
we collapse again
into the longest of black cars
then let out a whelp
like a thing that's been beaten
the sun a torn muscle in the rearview
figure has always made
more sense as a noun
contour rather than thought
these delicate curves always drowned
in the moonlight
we listen as more flags
lose what little resolve they once had
& then wait for the welcome of dust
as we return from a distance
so deep in the silence
we'd resisted all our lives
imposter
memories squared
way too much of the past
reconvened as some
tuned in kind of future
more hearings to be held
out in the hallway
after: minus
they're telling me
its quieter there
nothing letting us in on itself
those years I tried appearing
as they saw me
a new word is dawning
out back of my tongue
september
I had a spell
of clear breathing
when the league lead
was clinched
for say what
the hundredth time
just that day?
& the white flag
they chloroformed
had me singing
alleluias
though I never quite
left my body
like they promised
& all the meanwhile
the millennium grew
in formidableness &
sometime stature
meditation
we could all
just shut up
for a change
(near) rapture
let's go w/the god
who's forgiving
(tell me, what kind
of deity would ever
have a problem
w/somersaults, coasting?):
just look at how the river
has taken to its new shoes
& the sky its perfume
how could anything
begrudge me this scenery
what w/me even having
to have closed
both my eyes as I'm
pinched into blossom?
delivery
is that now
or are they showing us before?
you can think anything you want--
I ceased mouthing my own life
once I tasted the universe's laughter
a life of which too much
was made from the start
what w/my tiny fists pumping the air
convinced then as I am now
that I was the first
to come up w/this whole
re:birth shit
Born in Lowell, MA in 1960, Mark DeCarteret's work has appeared in AGNI, Chicago Review, Conduit, and Salt Hill, as well as such anthologies as American Poetry: The Next Generation (Carnegie Mellon Press, 2000) and Thus Spake the Corpse: An Exquisite Corpse Reader 1988-1998 (Black Sparrow Press, 2000). Recently his work has been featured online at Maverick Magazine and Mudlark. His most recent poetry book is The Great Apology, published three years ago by Oyster River Press for which he also co-edited the anthology Under the Legislature of Stars: 62 New Hampshire Poets.
