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| view from below |
Sounding
Consider
his: the saving
Of the self in the intense work of its singleness,
Learning to live with it.
David
Ferry
Out
at Lanesville
The plow sounds
it sounds
rising
from a
height of such
depth it is
all (briefly)
cacophony. Applause
at the end
of something
very
demanding
the audience
rapt
in the absolute
hush of the
something
they cannot
name
they can
never
name
save for
saying they have been
changed,
unmistakably
the way
going to bed
in
the middle
of
the day changes
the
body & her rhythm
the
way waking in the dark
to
the glow of the new
snow
not knowing it
was
supposed to snow
&
the night is all white light
spread
all the way
into
far
and
you can see that far
all
the way into the dark
of
the forested
property
and walking out
into
this with the plow still
far
off is an old time
revival
you know
kind
where the one with
the deepest
wounds from the deepest
memory is offered
up
& the
soundless awe
of the
congregation
their mute mouths
their
plumbed tongues
are
laid down
before
the plow
that
is yet that is yet
(because sound
to breach means taking it all in its entirety and it takes
a long long time)
is
still
beneath
it all
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