Pantoum N° 4
The cable guy is coming—
O, this tired day!
the shadows stir & stretch
toward form-annulling darkness.
O, this tired day,
languid in god-dug rut;
toward form-annulling darkness
the van rolls down the hour.
Languid in god-dug rut—
what are the odds, as I write,
the van rolls down the hour,
two lights break yonder window?
What are the odds? As I write,
the shadows stir & stretch;
two lights break yonder window—
the cable guy is coming.
Pantoum N° 3
Death has come early to empty
her memories & her pain;
she calls me by another’s name
because I remind her of him.
Her memories & her pain
are jars of water borne & spilled
because I remind her of him,
the son, who died at my age.
Are jars of water borne & spilled,
& does the past still burn?
The sun has died to this age
& the sky is a graying urn.
And does the past still burn?
She calls me by another’s name
& the sky is a graying urn
that death has come early to empty.
Pantoum N° 6
Compassed in the fingers of the sky,
a heron quill lights down upon the earth;
the seasons spin their pageant underneath—
another line draws out the wordspun world.
A heron quill lights down upon the earth
where lakeshores lap against the lake of trees;
another line draws out the wordspun world,
the tall spine of the letter that is you.
Where lakeshores lap against the lake of trees,
the named & hero-trodden stars are watching
the tall spine of the letter that is you,
the maple coursing sweet upon the page.
The named & hero-trodden stars are watching
the seasons spin their pageant underneath
the maple coursing sweet upon the page,
compassed in the fingers of the sky.
— Avery Paul is a reader & binder of books. He’s on twitter @cloudgatherdin.