1. |
The Clearing
03:35
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The dog and I push through the ring
of dripping junipers
to enter the open space high on the hill
where I let him off the leash.
He vaults, snuffling, between tufts of moss;
Twigs snap beneath his weight; he rolls
and rubs his jowls on the aromatic earth;
his pink tongue lolls.
I look for sticks of proper heft
to throw for him, while he sits, prim
and earnest in his love, if it is love.
All night a soaking rain, and now the hill
exhales relief, and the fragrance
of warm earth. . . . The sedges
have grown an inch since yesterday,
and ferns unfurled, and even if they try
the lilacs by the barn can’t
keep from opening today.
I longed for spring’s thousand tender greens,
and the white-throated sparrow’s call
that borders on rudeness. Do you know—
since you went away
all I can do
is wait for you to come back to me.
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2. |
Back
02:06
|
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We try a new drug, a new combination
of drugs, and suddenly
I fall into my life again
like a vole picked up by a storm
then dropped three valleys
and two mountains away from home.
I can find my way back. I know
I will recognize the store
where I used to buy milk and gas.
I remember the house and barn,
the rake, the blue cups and plates,
the Russian novels I loved so much,
and the black silk nightgown
that he once thrust
into the toe of my Christmas stocking.
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3. |
Now Where?
02:03
|
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It wakes when I wake, walks
when I walk, turns back when I
turn back, beating me to the door.
It spoils my food and steals
my sleep, and mocks me, saying,
“Where is your God now?”
And so, like a widow, I lie down
after supper. If I lie down
or sit up it’s all the same:
the days and nights bear me along.
To strangers I must seem
alive. Spring comes, summer;
cool clear weather; heat, rain. . . .
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4. |
The Sick Wife
02:08
|
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The sick wife stayed in the car
while he bought a few groceries.
Not yet fifty,
she had learned what it’s like
not to be able to button a button.
It was the middle of the day—
and so only mothers with small children
or retired couples
stepped through the muddy parking lot.
Dry cleaning swung and gleamed on hangers
in the cars of the prosperous.
How easily they moved—
with such freedom,
even the old and relatively infirm.
The windows began to steam up.
The cars on either side of her
pulled away so briskly
that it made her sick at heart.
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5. |
Man Waking
02:28
|
|||
The room was already light when
he awoke, and his body curled
like a grub suddenly exposed
when something dislodges a stone.
Work. He was more than an hour
late. Let that pass, he thought.
He pulled the covers over his head.
The smell of his skin and hair
offended him. Now he drew his legs
up a little more, and sent
his forehead down to meet his knees.
His knees felt cool.
A surprising amount of light
came through the blanket. He could
easily see his hand. Not dark enough,
not the utter darkness he desired.
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6. |
What Came To Me
01:16
|
|||
I took the last
dusty piece of china
out of the barrel.
It was your gravy boat,
with a hard, brown
drop of gravy still
on the porcelain lip.
I grieved for you then
as I never had before.
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7. |
The Blue Bowl
02:09
|
|||
Like primitives we buried the cat
with his bowl. Bare-handed
we scraped sand and gravel
back into the hole. It fell with a hiss
and thud on his side,
on his long red fur, the white feathers
that grew between his toes, and his
long, not to say aquiline, nose.
We stood and brushed each other off.
There are sorrows much keener than these.
Silent the rest of the day, we worked,
ate, stared, and slept. It stormed
all night; now it clears, and a robin
burbles from a dripping bush
like the neighbor who means well
but always says the wrong thing.
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8. |
While We Were Arguing
02:11
|
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The first snow fell—or should I say
it flew slantwise, so it seemed
to be the house
that moved so heedlessly through space.
Tears splashed and beaded on your sweater.
Then for long moments you did not speak.
No pleasure in the cups of tea I made
distractedly at four.
The sky grew dark. I heard the paper come
and went out. The moon looked down
between disintegrating clouds. I said
aloud: “You see, we have done harm.”
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9. |
The Socks
00:36
|
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While you were away
I matched your socks
and rolled them into balls.
Then I filled your drawer with
tight dark fists.
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10. |
Two Days Alone
01:22
|
|||
You are not here. I keep
the fire going, though it isn’t cold,
feeding the stove-animal.
I read the evening paper
with five generations
looking over my shoulder.
In the woodshed
darkness is all around and inside me.
The only sound I hear
is my own breathing. Maybe
I don’t belong here.
Nothing tells me that I don’t.
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11. |
For The Night
01:33
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The mare kicks
in her darkening stall, knocks
over a bucket.
The goose . . .
The cow keeps a peaceful brain
behind her broad face.
Last light moves
through cracks in the wall,
over bales of hay.
And the bat lets
go of the rafter, falls
into black air.
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12. |
The Pear
01:35
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There is a moment in middle age
when you grow bored, angered
by your middling mind, afraid.
That day the sun
burns hot and bright,
making you more desolate.
It happens subtly, as when a pear
spoils from the inside out,
and you may not be aware
until things have gone too far.
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13. |
Looking at Stars
02:26
|
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The God of curved space, the dry
God, is not going to help us, but the son
whose blood spattered
the hem of his mother’s robe.
|
Graham Sobelman Sacramento, California
Graham Sobelman is a Nothern California-based composer, music director & pianist who loves making music.
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