Yesterday, 10:58 AM
Word Of The Tree
The merchants came
with the sudden breath of dawn,
hauling the stench of oils
and the bawl of chainsaw engines,
and the limbs of the tree
fell in heavy pieces
onto the red and stoney ground.
In the sigh of its burning,
the tree renders
a dry and gentle song.
The trash man weeps.
At the smoke of its roosts,
at the heaps of its ashes,
at the great trunk standing
naked and black
on a bright morning.
He weeps for his daughter,
who sings and thrives
on every fruit of the tree,
knowing she will die
without words.
(Here, too, the leaves
will be first to go,
brittle and pale,
with dark veins.)
*****
The trash man possesses
but a single magic.
The twelfth moon bursts
whole on a Sunday.
He whispers
the scripture of Eve
as he nails
to the gnarls of the tree
all he has ever held
to be beautiful,
that he might keep
all he has ever loved.
*****
December sweeps its hot bristles
across the Greater Antilles.
Jamaica swelters;
from the shacks of Riverton
to the yards of Cherry Garden,
Kingston town breathes ras.
Here, at the corner
where Hope meets Old Hope,
the trash man labors
in the arms of the tree.
(-my God thats mango
smeared across the hairs
of his chest see he me
we tree three be the
madman Lion Perhaps
Judah skin dust to dark
earth damn hot-)
His art rasps with color,
chimes metal hollows,
bribes jerky shapes into
wings and tails:
Chromium-coated
hubcaps and bumpers
turn in the sun,
brightly painted boxes
and dull plastic sheets
flail in the wind,
kitchen utensils dangle
on long wires, a window
frame rests crooked.
*****
The trash man measures
the change of seasons
as the craft drizzles
free from his treasures.
*****
Roots black as Jesus
reach to God's Own Heart.
*****
One night,
the trash man’s daughter
awakens to hear weeping.
She wades a dew
to find
the fifth moon
embraces
the tree.
The tree is sad with fruit.
Her fingers
tremble
as she plucks
and unfolds
from the tree
this poem.
mtc26
The merchants came
with the sudden breath of dawn,
hauling the stench of oils
and the bawl of chainsaw engines,
and the limbs of the tree
fell in heavy pieces
onto the red and stoney ground.
In the sigh of its burning,
the tree renders
a dry and gentle song.
The trash man weeps.
At the smoke of its roosts,
at the heaps of its ashes,
at the great trunk standing
naked and black
on a bright morning.
He weeps for his daughter,
who sings and thrives
on every fruit of the tree,
knowing she will die
without words.
(Here, too, the leaves
will be first to go,
brittle and pale,
with dark veins.)
*****
The trash man possesses
but a single magic.
The twelfth moon bursts
whole on a Sunday.
He whispers
the scripture of Eve
as he nails
to the gnarls of the tree
all he has ever held
to be beautiful,
that he might keep
all he has ever loved.
*****
December sweeps its hot bristles
across the Greater Antilles.
Jamaica swelters;
from the shacks of Riverton
to the yards of Cherry Garden,
Kingston town breathes ras.
Here, at the corner
where Hope meets Old Hope,
the trash man labors
in the arms of the tree.
(-my God thats mango
smeared across the hairs
of his chest see he me
we tree three be the
madman Lion Perhaps
Judah skin dust to dark
earth damn hot-)
His art rasps with color,
chimes metal hollows,
bribes jerky shapes into
wings and tails:
Chromium-coated
hubcaps and bumpers
turn in the sun,
brightly painted boxes
and dull plastic sheets
flail in the wind,
kitchen utensils dangle
on long wires, a window
frame rests crooked.
*****
The trash man measures
the change of seasons
as the craft drizzles
free from his treasures.
*****
Roots black as Jesus
reach to God's Own Heart.
*****
One night,
the trash man’s daughter
awakens to hear weeping.
She wades a dew
to find
the fifth moon
embraces
the tree.
The tree is sad with fruit.
Her fingers
tremble
as she plucks
and unfolds
from the tree
this poem.
mtc26