THE AUTHENTIC GALLERIES
Begin again. Begin with the wound.
The wound begins with you,
it moves before you
into the dapple, the blueberry glade
and rhododendron
through which the man-trail cuts.
We are not severed. That
is the most important thing.
The oldest bark
blackened from long-ago fires.
I could walk forever, &
never see your face.
(I always see Your face.)
—beneath the supplicant pines.
Bear softly & with courage,
amateur. They have destroyed
the ledgers of our youths.
Either you or You, the lightning
or the earth that draws it.
Were I quarry would I flee.
The mountain’s brow
thick with gun-light, secreted.
“I am so happy,” Hopkins repeated
to himself, on his Dublin deathbed.
I’m watching a drug deal
high on the mountain,
by the disused fire tower
strung with razor-wire.
We will never be more frightened
than we are now,
is one way to describe Christ.
Our fear is inexpressibly beautiful.
Like a geode it must be cracked open.
Like a geode its crystals
grow inward,
towards a natural limit.
You may take a piece, feel it
moving through you,
its infant’s cry
meticulous, thrice-gratified, strong.
