Charles Wright

Drift Away

At work in the upper field,                                                    hay tops little buddhas,Calming the meadow and all its attendant tributaries,Porcupine, Basin Creek and God's blue hand like a skillet lidPressing us down to infinity—We thought it was up, but it turns out it's down, Jack, down.Either way we're stuck in the middle,                                                                      not a bad place to be. Later, sun like a struck medallionOver the west edge of things,

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Ducks

Gasoline smell on my hands, perfume From the generator’s toothless mouth, Opening swallow from the green hose, Sweet odor from the actual world. There’s an old Buddhist saying I think I read one time: Before Enlightenment, chop wood and carry water. After Enlightenment, chop wood and carry water. The ducks, who neither carry nor chop, Understand this, as I never will, Their little feet propelling them, under the water, Serene and stabilized,                                     from the far side of the pond Back to the marsh grasses and cattails. I watch them every night they’re there. Serenita

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October, Mon Amour

The first dead leaves lie like sea urchins                                                     browned on the asphalt drive. It’s got to be October, Slayer of living things, refrigerator of memory. Next to the wilted lettuce, next to the Simone Weil, Our lives are shoved in,                                         barely visible, but still unspoiled. Our history is the history of the City of God. What’s-to-Come is anybody’s guess. Whatever has given you comfort, Whatever has rested you, Whatever untwisted your heart                                                     is what you will leave beh

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