A Crossing
From them the dust and from them the storm,
and the smoke in the sky, and a rumble in the ground;
and from them the very sky seeming, from afar, parabolic;
from the curve or girth beyond the eye’s reach;
from/across/& through—
a beautiful level and fertile plain—
with soggy bottoms of slender allium
or nodding onion the size of musket ball,
white, crisp, well-flavored; from the high grass stretching
into tomorrow
the welcoming committee assembles & gathers—
each dark visage a massive escarpment
that stares out of bewilderment;
—from their river crossing, and from somewhere
inside the huff, hieratic ohm—
the beck-and-echo, returning call
of calves mothering-up; from the dark script
of the herd, frequently approaching more nearly
to discover what we are,
with/across/& to
the cataract of time:
this steady, animal regard,
this gaze of theirs, the size and scale of it,
so amassed,
arrests the men, who look them back
as they must/& do/& will—
from a bookcase, from a window sill.
From Empire Burlesque by Mark Svenvold
Actually, he’s a damn good teacher too. I’ll always remember his advice: “Treat cliches like kryptonite!” He stepped in for two of your classes when when you were off in Morocco researching an article. You two are a hell of a combo. Keep it up!
Thanks, Wendy, so much. Since you’re so wise and sharp, that’s quite a compliment.