Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Used Poem III

Silence Is The Perfect Answer

For days, she painted blue.
She painted until she was drunk with blue,
Until lines grew thick, like Picasso’s blue—
Not bones, but the shadows of bones
In desert's harsh light. 

She was painting in the place of making
And unmaking. Everything spilled 
Open, tugging loose, breaking the dry river
Stones until their geode hearts bled, not red,
But with the cerulean she chose to use. 

She heard the hawk cry thief, thief, 
Marking the air. In the silence after, 
She could almost trace the sound
Back to the beginning, to blue lines, 
Liquid with light, She named them. 

The Canyon. The Sediment. The Layers of Rock. 
Then she dropped the hawk’s feather from high 
Above and waited for the echo when it touched 
The canyon floor. She waited forever and forever 
And forever. No echo ever came.


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