Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Hidden in White Pulp

Sometimes I wonder how I can have walked past this tree a hundred times and never ran my fingers and my eyes along the rough rugae of its bark.
Sometimes I look at a word and want to jump into it, to see the world of its origin swell, to be the one that bells its meaning clearer and stronger.

by Denise Levertov

I like to find
what's not found
at once, but lies

within something of another nature,
in repose, distinct.
Gull feathers of glass, hidden

in white pulp: the bones of squid
which I pull out and lay
blade by blade on the draining board—

tapered as if for swiftness, to pierce
the heart, but fragile, substance
belying design. Or a fruit, mamey,

cased in rough brown peel, the flesh
rose-amber, and the seed:
the seed a stone of wood, carved and

polished, walnut-colored, formed
like a brazilnut, but large,
large enough to fill
the hungry palm of a hand.

I like the juicy stem of grass that grows
within the coarser leaf folded round,
and the butteryellow glow
in the narrow flute from which the morning-glory
opens blue and cool on a hot morning.

No comments:

Post a Comment