LOOSESTRIFE
“…because that which unites must perish.”–Holderlin
The cities changed hands. In the course
Of a decade, three times, the alphabets
Changed, driving our long nuns and their schoolchildren
Up into trees. Time was, beauty was
A compulsive fashion. The sublime
Kept a sewing kit in the mountains
And it stitched the mountains, despite their vehemence,
Into a glow. You might find a pastorella
On every roadside. Bavarian gentians
Were flowers that came when called,
Carrying torches, lighting the way
To easeful death. The afterlife glowed.
Now ask any Adam and he will know:
The sublime is heavy changed. At best,
It manages a pause, a kind of grace note,
Ornamental but oblique, in the general
Catastrophe. Ask any Zbigniew.
Our mountains refuse one another.
The cities wring their hands. I’ve been thinking
A lot about courage and humility,
About their being one and the same thing.
No flowers come when called. No death is easy.
The slightest breeze levels our encampments,
And we are a late glow in the trees.
