Friday, September 18, 2009
It’s hard to know what sort of rough music;
Forgetfulness; Forgetting; Graves;
Gravediggers; Loss; School
It’s hard to know what sort of rough music
Could send our forgetfulness back
into the ground,
From which the gravediggers pulled it
The first moment of the day we court
Even when we are fully awake,
a century can
Go by in the space of a single heartbeat.
The life we lose through forgetfulness
The earth that sticks to the sides
And the eggs the hen has abandoned
in the woods.
A thousand gifts were given to us
in the womb.
We lost hundreds during the forgetfulness
And we lost the old heaven
on the first day of school.
Forgetfulness resembles the snow
that weighs down
The fir boughs; behind our house
A forest going on for hundreds of miles.
Robert, it’s to your credit that you
So many lines of Rilke, but the purpose
Is to remember the last time
we left this world.
Posted over on The New Yorker