Ramoan Parish Bulletin

On the yachted sea, 
your boats burned so beautifully, 
the last summer, as many of us then thought. 
  
I unheard like a voice on wheels 
your undersea eyes, 
your snow, your snow, 
  
the winter of endings 
in your unprotected face. 
  
The last time I sang to you 
I said some words to the darkness 
in a sabbath-dark bar 
with the lights taken out, 
  
using the earthquake 
of my one and only body 
to describe the earthquake 
of my heart: 
  
and I thought my huge 
easy house was marked 
by the ghost of my young father 
  
striding on love's level 
in this far, forgetful, 
important place 
  
outside that state of being 
called his country, 
my small bonebound island, 
which world has gone forever. 
  
There were trees being trees 
outside, watching the herons 
walk like woman poets, 
  
a rush of strange mouths 
named after the river, 
  
and the time approached unshareably 
that was leaving him behind 
  
between the time when he was nothing 
and the time when he was everything.