Not Talking
When you leave I go to the wood
that wears its being like a loose down
vest. Windfall, deadfall, I duck under
words, the quiet forest assembling itself
around the thought of thought. Lie in the snow,
my face turned up. Somewhere close,
the river’s mouth is choked with last fall’s
leaves. Nothing left to say about
all our endless nothing-said, talking
held in place of touch like slides held up
to light. Naked maples, empty-handed,
reach toward that potent height where
things unseen return as form. Magic
trick, mysterious flicker: you turn and take
my hand. Lead me down the trampled trail
where language beat a fast retreat;
show me the hollow behind your heart
where all the cold’s pressed down.
We’re up to our knees now, headed for silence.
Come and lie down with me there.
Copyright © 2008 by Alison Pick. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
