The slightest gesture —
as of smoke lifting from the ends of his fingers
as if to mark the place, a fluttering at the wrist
not particular in its choosing, nor memory —
of the new-built home, its shuttered eyes, the white spackling
of the names, glass-cornered, silled, deeply halled
of the yellow clay and ochre ground
of the rutted lane, our shoes, sunlit and blue
of the grasses splayed at its banks
of the evening wire, strung post-to-post, the silent fields
of the walk and return
the frame and its hands
the language mown to its parts —
mein lieblich
as if in elegy —
as if to brush aside, to slip the ashes —
as if to bind —
the casements linked each to each
in easement of the hollow and the dusk
of the man in the hall of the house of the verge
and the sparks lifted off the rail
of the trains’ voracious night
of the lights in each window, the valley in flames
of steel, come into steel — to occupy —
to take or fill up
to engage or employ
to possess — to hold — to dwell
in severance — of the flesh — accidental
as our faces against the cold plate-glass
of the making, of the made
of the blue, die-cast knight asleep in the folds of his carpet.
My Bonnie lies over the ocean.
My Bonnie lies over the sea.
Black-work saddle. Silver boots.
The stubble of his cheek.
Calloused finger at my lips —
In the wake of its mind —
In the wake of a telling I cannot know —
There is a clicking —
of the wagon drawn across the white knitted stones
of the poplar-lined road to the Coleman-Kauserne
of the swingset, its sweeping gaze, the petals
of the voices sifting inside and beneath
of the sums, of the sums
in a language of stones
and the white painted stars
of the tanks on parade in the soles of our feet
to the mortar of walls, to the wells of our ears
from the barracks, from the barracks, from the barracks
into the narrow, cobbled streets
into the hedgerows, the corners
of thickets of willow
from the wet and sticky sheets
from the rent in its mind
into a breathless haze — an electric
uncoupling —
of the end of the lane
of the forest of pine
of the hands at my throat — smooth-palmed — concrete
entry — the doorless ringing — eve of the entry
(blonde and knobbly culms at its nape)
into the wood, into the dark mouth of the hill
into the weight and story
(an arterial dark)
(satin, esophageal)
My Bonnie lies over the ocean.
And when you return, you say: He painted
in the sea, dipping his brush to the tides
in the pools, at the rocks, by his feet.
And when you return, you say: Painted on the ceilings
of my sister’s birth — red and black — the living
relic — the mark — like an eye — open — still —
And when you return, you say: They had written their names
on the walls — on the insides — as if to see beyond
its gaze — as if to bear
upon its gaze.