Climbing the Hills to Mojacar, Spain

** My apologies for not being able to reproduce the correct line breaks.
--Glenn

Climbing the Hill to Mojacar, Spain
I.

The white city lifts
its humans out to sea
from heights buzzed by the sun—
a hive of wings—



II.

Throw the emptiness. . .

here everywhere humming

blur hunched among the sprigged locust trees
& path winding into the sun
speckled loom of the pastures
as I lumber up past a perfect welter
of white egrets startled from the emerald grass
beside black goats whose bells tinkle

they leap away from me



III.

in your arms. . .

Afternoon wind bats
tree limbs back and forth—
where do the birds go?
Grit in the air makes me
squint as I climb to the white
city up the empty road with
only the company of my body
and I am so glad to be
moving into a larger space
as I push thought back:
goats so distant they are
black flecks, their field
shiny green paint: world
I float into, this here now
that blanks out what
I don’t want to remember.



IV.

out into that space. . .

the net of language traps
and the world breaks into facts

black notes of wings
explode in a tree



V.

we breathe. —Rilke

Even when trees pull at their roots
and only spaces map

memory Even when I overhear
wind rustle or read the cold’s Braille

When did I imagine thought’s bat
wings fluttering by the eaves in the night?

I pledged pomegranates I pledged white walls
morning glory Words


for the way back



Copyright © Mary Crow
—first published in Ginger Hill
Dept. of English/Slippery Rock University
Posted over on Mary Crow's Blog