Title: Weathers, Vistas, Houses, Dust
Publication Date: 1980
Length: 16 pages
OUT OF PRINT
From the book:
for my mother
I believe I remember my first
house, deep in your body, alive
with music. White music breaking
ion waves on the cliffs of couches,
foam hands caressing a shore of
blue carpet. Adrift in a boat
made of listening, my sleep
was whole as milk in an udder.
But a doctor divided us, beached
me (deaf) in a body, far inland.
I’ve needed 20 years to relearn
your intricate fugue, to believe
in the ancient turntable wheeling
in its secret room. Mother, your
spirit’s needle quivers in its
spiral groove, like moonlight
threading the troughs of waves.
Yet I know that your bright tide
is a maelstrom too, devouring
your body’s walls. At first, it
frightened me, loud as the angry
knock Beethoven heard. But now,
the longer I listen, I find
the music growing more lovely,
more clear, as it homes on
into its silent center.