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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=428486" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Affair With Various Endings</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I. Kempton, Pennsylvania</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Perhaps the last of the light<br>lifting this evening from the field of wheat</div><div style="margin:10px 0">means something. Perhaps the view<br>includes us, and we are not errors <br>in the landscape</div><div style="margin:10px 0">or meant to be erased. The painter, it's true,<br>prefers not to preserve <br>our figures in the brush</div><div style="margin:10px 0">of hills layered into green. Perhaps he too<br>is careless with the truth. What lies</div><div style="margin:10px 0">have you had to tell to land you here</div><div style="margin:10px 0">outside Kempton, with the creek rising behind us?<br>How did the story sound? If I say your hand<br>on my thigh, the truck still idles</div><div style="margin:10px 0">beneath us, tracks in the frozen road</div><div style="margin:10px 0">that months from now will thaw<br>&amp; heave. If I say your mouth <br>and the deer begin drifting</div><div style="margin:10px 0">across the field, who's to say <br>we didn't call them out&mdash;their figures shadowy,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">their eyes gem-like and glittering?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>II. Undine</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>It was all too urgent being human.<br>You ordered drinks, gestured <br>with your hands, told stories</div><div style="margin:10px 0">and the more I knew</div><div style="margin:10px 0">the more I was frightened. Those evenings<br>the air came unpinned, got lost<br>in autumn &amp; dusk, in the leaves</div><div style="margin:10px 0">at the edge of the field. And weren't the edges themselves<br>vanishing? When you walked to the barn<br>where the cats had gone in,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">taken to rafters. I heard your footsteps <br>moving the gravel, the ice<br>in your glass of vodka. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> I listened like that<br>for the ends of things: the last of the cars, the headlights crossing<br>our bedroom. I listened<br>to your breathing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> but rooms kept turning in places <br>I could not ignore. I left because I loved you</div><div style="margin:10px 0">without reserve. Because I would not be allowed</div><div style="margin:10px 0">to keep you with me in the world.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>III. &quot;Kings River Canyon&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Because when you read it your voice shakes,<br> breaks over the last words,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Because in the Pennsylvania Hospital<br>at 8th and Spruce, surgeons have split open your chest<br>and with instruments</div><div style="margin:10px 0">are cutting your heart, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">and because I wanted to hurt them, because they never<br> get older, but return each year</div><div style="margin:10px 0">refreshed, blond&mdash;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I read the poem, Rexroth walking back through the canyon<br>where twenty years before he had slept <br>with his new wife</div><div style="margin:10px 0">at the beginning of autumn. <br>It was her birthday</div><div style="margin:10px 0">and they lay there on the hard earth,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">the stream running beside <br>and the walls soaring up</div><div style="margin:10px 0">to hold them there. Maybe<br>he made love to her, the air<br>chilling the skin</div><div style="margin:10px 0">or maybe that was the disease</div><div style="margin:10px 0">beginning even then, gathering itself deep<br>inside her body, considering <br>the distance between itself</div><div style="margin:10px 0">and the surface.<br> There was no path.<br>They'd cut their way into the canyon</div><div style="margin:10px 0">where eighteen years later,<br>a highway's been blasted through. Eighteen years<br>he writes ground to pieces.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I am more alone that I ever imagined.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You are dead. And in the mechanical<br>cool of the classroom<br>I felt it grip me:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">how it will be without you<br>when I'll be fifty-five, sixty,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">in the beginning of winter, in the first<br>waves of snow. I'll watch the slow drag<br>of the Schulykill</div><div style="margin:10px 0">or I'll go the garden where we met,<br>the leaves spinning down<br>into the empty fountain,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">where I will never see you, <br>not again, not your hands, your face,<br>or hear aloud the way</div><div style="margin:10px 0">you said my name. I'll turn<br>and turn again,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">but you'll be gone, nothing filling up your place.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Kate+Northrop">Kate Northrop</a><div class=q>
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Perhaps the last of the light
lifting this evening from the field of wheat

means something. Perhaps the view
includes us, and we are not errors 
in the landscape

or meant to be erased. The painter, it's true,
prefers n..."></div>
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