Bruckner at Saint Florian

Bruckner at Saint Florian


Something
in the back of the mind,

the old shed, shack,
corner burlap
sack of potatoes

we poor men ate this.

Not now. Something else.
Now is paper.
Scissors.
A whole orchestra
trying to remember.
Who were we when we were?

Sometimes sun stuns.

He falls off his horse
all the way into the sky
down—

when you think,
everything becomes a matter of distance
and no unit
of measurement
measures us all.

No measure.
Immoderate music
a cloakroom full of violins

but I wanted amber, the umber
of shadow on suntanned
women also trying to remember

everybody was who everybody was.

Now if you get lost in this music,
this knot-browed deep-breathing kneeling
music, you’ll be in a place where everything
is found,

why should I bother you
with imagining
to make you remember
the everlasting Christmas of the heart

music is always people on the move
but where are they going?

where the star fell off its sky
and came to us
and we listen,

can I wear you on my hands
can I touch the world by you
can I pick it up and bring it home?

Home is the hard word here,

to live at last in the word
or even the sound of a word
is the realest estate

to live in your word,

your magdalen mouth.


Robert Kelly

Posted over on Conjunctions