The Gossip According to St. Mathews
We're all losing our language a little, brother
Tony. The tumor of grief, the cancer of mysterious
cause and effect, they press up against our vocabulary
of friendship.
The cabinet maker is having his cupboards cleaned:
the doctor smells a rat in there.
If dancing to Louis Prima can't get you out of this,
I don't know what can.
Hiking up to Beauty Spot Gap today, the trail was
edged in black. Last fall's fire has skinned the
rhododendrons to an orange imitation of flames.
Maybe your scalp will look a little like this come
tomorrow morning.
Did I mention there are flowers, too? Thoughtful,
hopeful flowers: not a one in memoriam. Their Blue
Ridge view of slow stone waves is surfing through
our post-geologic eyes. We can see clear to survival
from up here.