Winter 2012 • Vol. XXXIV No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 2012 |

The Graves

Sometimes on the steps you forget you are lasting in sunlight. You forget kinship, as when, through dusk, deer keep the color of the field. You forget rest, and a room that fills— a spare music, like bells. Sometimes red stars appear in the ceiling's slight tear and there are times I would add myself to that night sky, eerie and un- touched. Waves of daylight and darkness protect against nothing. Sometimes the aquifer rises into your eyes, a mass of deep greens, ancient and mineral- lustral. Undersea moons make patterns on the walls and shape the hours you are not there.        ―There is a fine morning haze that will not come to me. In the years left to me I would change. The lights above a town hold out a delicate blinking whiteness, however small, and my skin comes to them, a loom of burrs. If I belong within stillness the lanterns may answer, hung on branches that, caught by wind, sound like the pulling-away of waves. Even trees hold their fra

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Photo of Joanna Klink
Joanna Klink is the author of five books of poetry, most recently The Nightfields. She teaches at the Michener Center for Writers in Austin, Texas.

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