Summer 2002 • Vol. XXIV No. 3/4 PoetryJuly 1, 2002 |

Greeter of Souls

Ponds are spring-fed, lakes run off of rivers. Here souls pass, not one deified, and sometimes this is terrible to know three floors below the street, where light drinks the world, siphoned like music through portals. How fed, the dark, the octaves framed faceless. A memory of water. The trees more beautiful not themselves. Souls who have passed here, tired, brightening, dumpsters of linen, empty gurneys along corridors to parking garages. Who wonders, is it morning? Who washes these blankets? Can I not be the greeter of souls? What's to be done with the envelopes of hair? If the inlets are frozen, can I walk across? When I look down into myself to see a scattering of birds, do I put on the new garments? On which side of the river should I wait?

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