What beats in me
I still bear
Give Way, Ye Gates - Roethke
What is this place where leaves drift
frayed yellow, rasping the gutter,
where sunshine sweeps rubbish to grates?
Give way. Greet rain. Feel the gate shift.
What is this place of blunt weather
where light, falling with the weight
of water, chisels slowly and sifts
through weeds till they are grit?
where splintery poles and power wires
brace the sky at harvest? where thin voices
mutter down cables while choirs
of leaves scuff wind to the ground?
Hear light flow dark currents, veiled choices.
Name the blows when trees flake fire and sound.
When is this place of exposed root
where shadows bar and image scars
the eye? where violence by late fruit
sweetens earth? where slant sun mars?
Taste plums. Touch hidden bruises.
Hear static. Breathe rain as wind diffuses
leaves, as gardens crumble into pyres.
Why is this place of desire?
Always. Always walk slowly to arrive
there on time. Drift as yellow drifts
the street to shadow. Darkness drives
the white house under that maple.
Who is this place of bruised stone
who sings as the wind lifts?
Who leaves the faintest scent of apples?
Look down the length of your marrow,
the green unfurling from old furrows.
Light shifts. Greet rain spilled from bone.
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