Charles Wright Poems
|1.||Littlefoot, 19, (This Is The Bird Hour)||5/21/2015|
|2.||A Short History of the Shadow||6/3/2016|
|3.||The Appalachian Book of the Dead||6/3/2016|
|8.||Dio Ed Io||6/3/2016|
|10.||Nine-Panel Yaak River Screen||6/3/2016|
|12.||Sitting Outside at the End of Autumn||6/3/2016|
|13.||Spider Crystal Ascension||6/3/2016|
|14.||Stone Canyon Nocturne||6/3/2016|
|16.||Words and the Diminution of All Things||6/3/2016|
|17.||After Reading Tu Fu, I Go Outside To The Dwarf Orchard||1/20/2003|
|18.||Body And Soul Ii||1/20/2003|
|19.||Still Life On A Matchbox Lid||3/15/2005|
I seem to have come to the end of something, but don’t know what,
Full moon blood orange just over the top of the redbud tree.
Maundy Thursday tomorrow,
then Good Friday, then Easter in full drag,
Dogwood blossoms like little crosses
All down the street,
lilies and jonquils bowing their mitred heads.
Perhaps it’s a sentimentality about such fey things,
But I don’t think so. One knows
There is no end to the other world,
no matter where it is.
In the event, a reliquary evening for sure,
The bones in their tiny boxes, rosettes under glass.
The generator hums like a distant ding an sich.
It's early evening, and time, like the dog it is,
is hungry for food,
And will be fed, don't doubt it, will be fed, my small one.
The forest begins to gather its silences in.
The meadow regroups and hunkers down
for its cleft feet.
Something is wringing the rag of