{"id":9486,"date":"2018-06-30T21:18:51","date_gmt":"2018-06-30T20:18:51","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=9486"},"modified":"2018-07-02T07:58:44","modified_gmt":"2018-07-02T06:58:44","slug":"three-poems-31","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=9486","title":{"rendered":"Three Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"
Late Summer Lament<\/h5>\n

When feeling turns, finally, into burden
\nthere is shame and a moment
\nknown in human terms as letting go<\/em>.<\/p>\n

This happens often in late summer
\nin a smoky clearing, bee-cloud brooding
\ngilded lace beside a tent.<\/p>\n

In the end, a sleeping man can blend
\ninto a hare softening in the briar,
\nsoon to alight from dreaming.<\/p>\n

Therefore, let grief along the drab zipper
\nbe temporary. Think
\nof the owls loved more dearly\u2014<\/p>\n

one off stalking another forest, or resting.
\nTrophies in some branches,
\narchaic and everlasting.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

No Tension, No Cry<\/h5>\n

Cypress fused to willow
\nafter centuries becomes impossible
\nto divide: the math
\ndoesn\u2019t exist, nor do knotted vines,
\ntorqued in mud, desire it.<\/p>\n

And the homeless ducks
\nwho\u2019ve made of this pond a home?
\nWhat do they desire?<\/p>\n

A marvelous family:
\nmother and father, triplet offspring
\nhalf-buried in shine.<\/p>\n

I can watch them, their heads
\nunruffled by grief, sapphire
\nand verdigris in sunlight, the grub-
\nwhite scars around each adult
\neye not painful to see.<\/p>\n

Bills doctor weeds loose
\nat the shoreline; their bodies cut felt
\nthat smocks these edges:
\na lush scissoring.<\/p>\n

No tension in the buoyant chest,
\nno cry to break the quiet.<\/p>\n

Only the feel of wings
\nfolded in mind, before they\u2019re unfurled
\n(like this<\/em>) over the woods\u2019 cities.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

White Wall<\/h5>\n

Filmy tongue stuttering home
\nmovies onto a white wall is proof
\nenough: I was once<\/p>\n

a kid, falling toward the lens,
\nhis arm reaching into frame
\nto steady me. I have that <\/p>\n

arm and, for five seconds, all of him
\nin a pale blue Easter suit,
\nwaving and waving, <\/p>\n

have how that wave boils down
\nto what he saw beyond the machine:
\nimpossible part of the picture<\/p>\n

lost to a past past my reach.
\nNow his body\u2019s in that place.
\nThe world keeps the ball rolling.<\/p>\n

I see things unfold on TV
\nall the time: a man in a jungle,
\nmelting through his noose,<\/p>\n

the Lindbergh Baby, badly chewed,
\nin a sepia still. I see through
\nthe rumors of his body\u2019s condition<\/p>\n

when found, all murk and heat,
\nglimmering against the white wall,
\neach erasure, each image.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Late Summer Lament When feeling turns, finally, into burden there is shame and a moment known in human terms as letting go. This happens often in late summer in a smoky clearing, bee-cloud brooding gilded lace beside a tent. In the end, a sleeping man can blend into a hare softening in the briar, soon […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":252,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[351,353],"tags":[355],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\nThree Poems - The Manchester Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=9486\" \/>\n<link rel=\"next\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=9486&page=2\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Three Poems - The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Late Summer Lament When feeling turns, finally, into burden there is shame and a moment known in human terms as letting go. 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